Friday, October 31, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
All Expenses Paid Vacation to the French Countryside...
Bright and early this Thursday morning, a car will be sent for me. It will take me to the non-commercial Teterboro Airport in New Jersey where I will board a small charter plane, Passport in tow. I will then depart for an eight hour flight to France where I will spend four days in the countryside with six new friends. All meals will be prepared for me without the snap button of my wallet ever making a sound and I might even get to look out the windows once in a while.
See, I'll be letting French grad students conduct a clinical research study on my body, testing the effects of an FDA approved drug on jetlag. I'll be restricted to stay between the white walls of their facility, but considering I'll look like an alien with wires attached to every available surface of my body, that's fine by me. I don't think I'd be able to find a handsome French sugar daddy with sensors glued to my cheek bones. Ah... cest la vi...
I'll be debt free by December.
:)
See, I'll be letting French grad students conduct a clinical research study on my body, testing the effects of an FDA approved drug on jetlag. I'll be restricted to stay between the white walls of their facility, but considering I'll look like an alien with wires attached to every available surface of my body, that's fine by me. I don't think I'd be able to find a handsome French sugar daddy with sensors glued to my cheek bones. Ah... cest la vi...
I'll be debt free by December.
:)
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Published
It finally happened. I finally got published. It's nothing fancy, nothing to write home about, but its a start. Come Novemeber 1st, I'll have an author's page on a modest online short story publication. It'll include a head shot, a short bio, and my story Holy Ghosts.
I changed up the story up a bit. I was channeling Mark Twain's style and it evolved into more of a fictional story than before. Hope you like it!
Holy Ghosts
Lots of changes have been happening around here lately. I got all sorts of new rules I gotta follow, like taking vitamins in the mornings and counting to a hundred when I brush my teeth. Oh, and instead of watching cartoons on Sunday mornings, I gotta go to church in prissy dresses and ruffle socks with stuffy paten leather shoes. All this started when Dad married Patricia. Grandmother Edna doesn’t seem to like it all that much either. I heard her scolding my dad, telling him that if I’m gonna start attending church now, I should be going to the Pentecostal church with her. She says Patricia’s got no right to be messing with a long family line of faith in the Gospel, whatever that means. Anyway, I guess she got real pushy about it ‘cus my dad finally gave in. He told her she could have me for Saturday night services just as long as I got a good night’s sleep for Patricia’s church the next morning. He told her to leave the spiritual hangovers for when I had a mind of my own. But sure enough, I got caught drooping my head last Sunday morning when the choir was singing and Patricia spanked my leg. It wasn’t like I could help it though. Grandmother Edna and I, we’d had ourselves a long night.
I never knew there was more than one kind of church to go to, but Grandmother Edna said her church was different from Patricia’s church ‘cus of all the dancing. She told me, "Your daddy is really a member of the Pentecostal church, y’know. He got the Holy Ghost when he was just about your age." She got quiet for a minute and then, as if a light bulb went off behind those reading glasses of hers, she perked up. "Did you know her church won’t allow dancing? Those Southern Baptist folks call it a sin. Can you believe that? Dancing - a sin?"
At first, her house smells like fried chicken and vanilla but then all the cat hair makes my nose extra stuffy and I can’t smell anymore. But sometimes I think she uses too much hair spray ‘cus I can smell it on her shoulder pads when she gives me hugs, no matter how stuffy I get. I guess that’s how her hair stays so still. Anyway, she didn’t have any cable cartoons, so I was watching a tape full of Wheel of Fortune recordings when she cooked dinner, and I was sitting real still, just like she told me to, but that show gets boring real quick. So I went to the kitchen, looking for something better to do, I guess, and Grandmother was trying to dodge the grease poppers that get ya after flippin’ a pork chop. I must have laughed louder than I meant to ‘cus she started talking without even turning around to see me standing there. “I got you a beautiful dress from JC Penny’s,” she told me. “It’s upstairs on the guest bed. I had to guess your size, but I’m sure it’ll fit just fine.” She sized me up and kept on flippin’ chops. “After dinner, we’ll get you ready for church. Brother Wallace will absolutely adore you. They’ll all adore you.”
“How come your church is at night time?”
“That’s just our way. Saturday and Sunday nights. I’d like to have you over for both, but your stepmother insists you go to her church on Sundays.” I could tell from that look on her face that she doesn't like Dad's new wife just as much as me. “Your daddy’ll be here early in the morning to pick you up.”
“There any kids in your church?”
“ ’Course. Sister Sandra has a girl about your age. I’ve already called to make sure she can sit with us during the sermon. Her name’s Nicolette.”
“So does that mean Nicolette is my cousin or something?”
“Well not like you think. Sister Sandra isn’t my blood sister. She’s my sister under God. Everyone in the church is family, so that makes Nicolette your sister under God, not your cousin.”
“Can I bring a coloring book?”
“Heavens no. That would be rude.” Grandmother pounded a fist into her big hips and made a funny face at me. “Do they let you do that in Patricia’s church?”
“No ma’am,” I lied.
“Anyway, we do lots of dancing in my church. You’ll see. I’m just glad you’re on the road to salvation. Maybe you’ll get yourself the Holy Ghost tonight. You wanna go to heaven when you die, right?”
Now I’ve been hearing a lot about this heaven place lately and it sure sounds nice. So, of course I told her I wanted to go. I just didn’t understand why you gotta die first...
She smiled at me and asked if I had my bath yet. Before I could answer, she grabbed hold of my arms and pulled my sleeves up to get a good look at my fingernails. “We’ll have to re-wet your hair and put curlers in before dinner,” she said.
Man! She sure likes to tease my hair a lot. She roughed it up ‘till I looked like Orphan Annie. It hurt real bad and I couldn’t think of anything other than the pain. But as she rat my hair in a fluff, I got to thinking about this Holy Ghost guy. I figured he was like Santa and Jesus all rolled up into one or something, but I couldn’t be sure, so I asked. Grandmother let out a gasp, full of hot smoker’s breath that whipped its way around to my nose. “You’ve never heard of the Holy Ghost?” For a split second, she stopped pulling out my red hair by the chunk with her plastic comb and I took the opportunity to reach up for a quick scratch at my scalp. “Well, I suppose your daddy needs a lot of prayer, bless his heart. He should've known better than to raise a child in the dark. But you’re here now, baby girl. The Good Lord has put you here for a reason.”
As she wound my hair up in pink sponge curlers, she said something like, “You know the Good Lord loves you, and he wants to make sure you get in to Heaven. Once you get yourself cleansed by the Holy Spirit, Brother Wallace can baptize you in the church. Then you’ll be saved, baby girl. You’ll be a member of the church just like your daddy and me.”
“Get cleansed?” I asked her. “But I’m cleaner than ever. Patricia makes me take a bath every night.”
She told me Brother Wallace would be there to understand the spirit as it starts to speak through me. She said I gotta talk in some foreign language called Tongues, which sounds like a lot of slobber talk to me and of course I don’t know any foreign languages. I tried scratching between the curlers again, but she swatted my hand away. I told her how I was having a hard enough time with English, that my third grade vocabulary tests weren’t always A’s and B’s, but she just giggled. “You’ll do just fine, baby girl,” she said. I don’t know why she keeps calling me that. I looked in the mirror and sure enough, I was just as big as any nine-year-old. “Now let’s get this dress on. We’re running late.”
The dress made me feel like a real wuss, but Sister Sandra’s daughter, Nicolette, had one on just like it. And there weren’t really any other kids to worry about seeing me in all those ruffles. It was mostly old people. Anyway, Nicolette sat next to me just like Grandmother said. She was good about minding her manners, which is fine and all, but I thought we’d get to play a game or something while the adults listened to the big bald man up front. Instead, she just sat there messing with the tip of her long blonde braid. Once in a while, the bald guy would get all wiggly in that white suit of his, and he’d get so loud that I couldn’t help but stare. Of course I know it’s not polite to stare, but it probably just looked like I was paying attention or something ‘cus my Grandmother didn’t scold me about it. Anyway, Nicolette seemed pretty used to it. She just reached in her sparkly purse to grab a bag full of candy and since she’s my sister now, I figured she should probably share. So, I held my hand out. She passed me a green one. As I started to open up the plastic wrapper, one of the women yelled real loud, like she saw a ghost or something. “Hallelujah!” I looked around for floating fog bubbles. Then another one said, “Amen! Praise Jesus!” I just couldn’t believe how rude they were, shouting out like that while the big bald man was making his speech, and I didn’t see any ghosts to be screaming about. But Brother Wallace kept going like it was nothing. He just got louder and louder until I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. He seemed real mad, but not at the old ladies who tried to interrupt him. I couldn’t tell who he was mad at. People started standing up from the benches and waving their hands in the air, whining and hollering some sort of jibber jabber. They seemed upset too. I looked up at Grandmother and she just kept nodding her head up and down, looking serious as ever.
“The Good Lord is here tonight, Allison,” Grandmother told me. She leaned over me and looked at Nicolette. “You wanna take my granddaughter up to the front?”
Nicolette said “Yes ma’am,” and took my hand.
Suddenly, I got real scared. I looked around for the Good Lord, but I just saw some people getting up to sit behind a bunch of music instruments at the bottom of the stage. Seemed like everyone thought that was a good time to start walking around, even though Brother Wallace was still making his speech. I stood up and followed Nicolette. As we walked in the aisle, a chubby lady jumped in front of us and started crying like a big baby. She threw her arms up in the air and hopped up and down. Then another lady with a long braid like Nicolette’s reached out for the crying woman and helped her walk up to the front.
If it weren’t for the loud music playing, I think everyone in that building would have heard my heart thumping like it’s never thumped before.
Nicolette and I kept on moving towards the front, following right behind the two ladies, and my Grandmother followed too. I figured we’d do some dancing or something, but the ladies kept walking straight up to Brother Wallace. He kept wiggling in that white suit of his, hoopin’ and hollarin’ as loud as he could, but I guess he sensed people looking up at him. He turned to the cry-baby lady and grabbed the top of her head. He started shaking her bun loose! Her hair was getting all messed up, but she didn’t seem to care all that much. She was too busy making a fuss. She was crying so hard that I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. I guessed it was more jibber jabber, but then I realized she was speaking in tongues, like Grandmother was telling me about. Of course I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but it seemed like she was begging Brother Wallace for something. I thought about how Grandmother said he’s supposed to be the only one who understands this stuff, so I wondered why he didn’t just give the lady what she was asking for. A big blob of sweat dropped from that big bald head of his and landed smack dab on the lady’s arm. I don’t know if she could feel it or not, but he didn’t even try to apologize. I looked at Nicolette, hoping she still had her purse with her. I thought the lady could use one of those Jolly Ranchers right about now, but Nicolette looked a little busy. She had her eyes closed tight and she was dancing around a little bit. I guessed she was enjoying the music or something, so I didn’t want to interrupt.
All of a sudden, everyone was standing around us, patting shoulders and singing, hopping around, and some were crying just like the fussy lady. Some of the men were crying too, but they kept to one side of the church while the woman stood on the other.
Nicolette opened her eyes and smiled at me. She grabbed my hand again and asked, “Are you going to get the Holy Ghost tonight?”
“Well I’d try, but I can’t see him,” I told her.
“No silly. You can’t see it. You feel it. Once you step up to Brother Wallace to get prayed for, he’ll lay his hands on you and then you’ll start feelin’ the Holy Ghost. Watch me. I’ll show you.”
The fussy lady must’ve fallen to the floor while I was looking around. She had a bunch of other ladies circled around her, whipping her face with tissues and holding her arms up in the air. Nicolette stepped up to where the fussy lady had been, right under Brother Wallace. She held her arms up and he started shaking her head. Before I could blink, she was going through the same fussy business; crying, jibber-jabber, wiggling all over the place – the works! I looked back at Grandmother. She was crying too. All these big babies were starting to give me a head ache!
Grandmother put her arm around me. She took a few steps forward, dragging me along, and suddenly, there I was, right in front of the head shaker himself! I looked up to see two giant man-paws coming down on me. I was done for. If I wanted to get this over with, I was gonna have to start speakin’ the jibber jabber pretty quick, and I thought maybe I should turn on the water works just be extra sure. So, I raised my arms and out of nowhere, six different pairs of hands were landed on my back. Some were stretching my arms up even higher. I closed my eyes and started thinking about my old puppy Max who died last year. I figured that’d make me cry, but it wasn’t working.
A voice from behind me screamed in my ear something like, “Talk to Him, Sister Maggie! Shuckanamakulotista! Yes, praise Jesus, baby. Talk to Him. Tell him you love him. Hallelujia!” And then another one leaned into my other ear and said, “Let it out, child! Shout to Jesus!” I wasn’t sure if it was their nasty cry-baby breath that did the trick, or if it was all the yelling in my ears, but either way, I just couldn’t help it! All that shaking on my head and all the hollarin’ just about made my heart jump up in my throat and suddenly, I was dropping fat tears out of my eyes like rain from the sky. The second it all started rolling down my cheeks, Brother Wallace went on yelling even louder than before.
“This young soul will be saved tonight!” he said. “Let that mighty river of the Holy Ghost wash over you, sweet child. Yes! Speak the word of the spirit through this young person tonight, God. Let her be a servant unto you. Yes! The Good Lord is here tonight, child. Hallelujah!”
With the floor shaking like it was, I thought maybe the church was starting to break in half. So I had to take a peek around me. I opened one eye, just a bit, and took a look around. I saw Nicolette had fallen to the floor just like that other lady did. She was kicking and waving her arms above her head. She made fists with her hands like she wanted to throw a few punches or something and she kept screaming that slobber talk. When I went back to closing both eyes, I thought about all this Heaven talk I’ve been hearing about. I figured if I went on babbling made-up words real fast, I’d get to see the place with pearly gates and golden floors. Or was it golden gates and pearly floors..? I can’t remember, but I didn’t wanna miss out on all the fun. And I thought maybe this Holy Ghost guy would leave presents under my tree if I put on a big fuss for him. It seemed awful funny, Santa having a ghost for a sidekick... It was kinda like mixing Christmas with Halloween. But I didn’t care, just as long as I’d get to see the North Pole while I’m up there.
Brother Wallace kept on yelling even though it sounded like he needed to clear his throat and the ladies kept huddling around me like a bunch of squawking penguins, screaming in my ears. It wasn’t all that hard to keep crying. I mean, just between us, I was kind of scared. My stomach sure was churning up some butterflies, but I started yelling right along with everybody else. As soon as I told Jesus I loved him, real loud-like, everyone started pulling on my arms even harder, breathing in my ears even faster, getting louder, and Brother Wallace nearly shook the freckles off my face.
Back at school, I’ve got this friend Veronica. She’s from Mexico. She taught me how to roll my tongue real fast so that I could make a funny whistle sound. So, since I didn’t really know what to say to Brother Wallace, I just started rolling my tongue real fast. And I was blubbering like a baby too. A lady started talking that jibber jabber in my ear and so I kind of said some stuff she said, mixed in with my own stuff. “Shalakala Balamana Blah!” I said. I looked around with one eye again, just real quick. I wanted to see if I could find any foggy stuff flying around, but no luck. The folks around me seemed to like my slobber talk just fine. They squealed like a bunch of hyenas when I did it, so I gave them some more. “Shalaka jamania m’biki shiquira bamana!” Then I rolled my tongue again. With all that hoopin’ and hollerin’, you’d think I just kissed a boy or something! I looked around one more time, but still, no foggy ghost guy. I figured maybe he’d come along if I fell to the floor like Nicolette did, like if I flopped around like a fried egg on a skillet or something, and man! All those people in the church loved it! They clapped their hands and hopped up and down real hard. I could feel the floor thumping under me. When I opened both eyes, I saw twenty different faces all grinning at me. My Grandmother was right there too. She was crying even harder now, but she was smiling all the same.
“You did it, baby girl! You got the Holy Ghost!” she told me.
"That's it?!" I whispered.
. . . Looking back, I’m pretty sure there weren’t any ghosts or spirits jumping inside of me, but I was feeling kind of funny that night. Grandmother says I was drunk in the spirit. I asked her if I’d have a hangover in the morning like dad said, but she just kissed my forehead and looked back up at Brother Wallace. He was a little quieter after we all went back to our seats, which was nice. And Nicolette gave me another Jolly Rancher. This time, it was red – my favorite!
I changed up the story up a bit. I was channeling Mark Twain's style and it evolved into more of a fictional story than before. Hope you like it!
Holy Ghosts
Lots of changes have been happening around here lately. I got all sorts of new rules I gotta follow, like taking vitamins in the mornings and counting to a hundred when I brush my teeth. Oh, and instead of watching cartoons on Sunday mornings, I gotta go to church in prissy dresses and ruffle socks with stuffy paten leather shoes. All this started when Dad married Patricia. Grandmother Edna doesn’t seem to like it all that much either. I heard her scolding my dad, telling him that if I’m gonna start attending church now, I should be going to the Pentecostal church with her. She says Patricia’s got no right to be messing with a long family line of faith in the Gospel, whatever that means. Anyway, I guess she got real pushy about it ‘cus my dad finally gave in. He told her she could have me for Saturday night services just as long as I got a good night’s sleep for Patricia’s church the next morning. He told her to leave the spiritual hangovers for when I had a mind of my own. But sure enough, I got caught drooping my head last Sunday morning when the choir was singing and Patricia spanked my leg. It wasn’t like I could help it though. Grandmother Edna and I, we’d had ourselves a long night.
I never knew there was more than one kind of church to go to, but Grandmother Edna said her church was different from Patricia’s church ‘cus of all the dancing. She told me, "Your daddy is really a member of the Pentecostal church, y’know. He got the Holy Ghost when he was just about your age." She got quiet for a minute and then, as if a light bulb went off behind those reading glasses of hers, she perked up. "Did you know her church won’t allow dancing? Those Southern Baptist folks call it a sin. Can you believe that? Dancing - a sin?"
At first, her house smells like fried chicken and vanilla but then all the cat hair makes my nose extra stuffy and I can’t smell anymore. But sometimes I think she uses too much hair spray ‘cus I can smell it on her shoulder pads when she gives me hugs, no matter how stuffy I get. I guess that’s how her hair stays so still. Anyway, she didn’t have any cable cartoons, so I was watching a tape full of Wheel of Fortune recordings when she cooked dinner, and I was sitting real still, just like she told me to, but that show gets boring real quick. So I went to the kitchen, looking for something better to do, I guess, and Grandmother was trying to dodge the grease poppers that get ya after flippin’ a pork chop. I must have laughed louder than I meant to ‘cus she started talking without even turning around to see me standing there. “I got you a beautiful dress from JC Penny’s,” she told me. “It’s upstairs on the guest bed. I had to guess your size, but I’m sure it’ll fit just fine.” She sized me up and kept on flippin’ chops. “After dinner, we’ll get you ready for church. Brother Wallace will absolutely adore you. They’ll all adore you.”
“How come your church is at night time?”
“That’s just our way. Saturday and Sunday nights. I’d like to have you over for both, but your stepmother insists you go to her church on Sundays.” I could tell from that look on her face that she doesn't like Dad's new wife just as much as me. “Your daddy’ll be here early in the morning to pick you up.”
“There any kids in your church?”
“ ’Course. Sister Sandra has a girl about your age. I’ve already called to make sure she can sit with us during the sermon. Her name’s Nicolette.”
“So does that mean Nicolette is my cousin or something?”
“Well not like you think. Sister Sandra isn’t my blood sister. She’s my sister under God. Everyone in the church is family, so that makes Nicolette your sister under God, not your cousin.”
“Can I bring a coloring book?”
“Heavens no. That would be rude.” Grandmother pounded a fist into her big hips and made a funny face at me. “Do they let you do that in Patricia’s church?”
“No ma’am,” I lied.
“Anyway, we do lots of dancing in my church. You’ll see. I’m just glad you’re on the road to salvation. Maybe you’ll get yourself the Holy Ghost tonight. You wanna go to heaven when you die, right?”
Now I’ve been hearing a lot about this heaven place lately and it sure sounds nice. So, of course I told her I wanted to go. I just didn’t understand why you gotta die first...
She smiled at me and asked if I had my bath yet. Before I could answer, she grabbed hold of my arms and pulled my sleeves up to get a good look at my fingernails. “We’ll have to re-wet your hair and put curlers in before dinner,” she said.
Man! She sure likes to tease my hair a lot. She roughed it up ‘till I looked like Orphan Annie. It hurt real bad and I couldn’t think of anything other than the pain. But as she rat my hair in a fluff, I got to thinking about this Holy Ghost guy. I figured he was like Santa and Jesus all rolled up into one or something, but I couldn’t be sure, so I asked. Grandmother let out a gasp, full of hot smoker’s breath that whipped its way around to my nose. “You’ve never heard of the Holy Ghost?” For a split second, she stopped pulling out my red hair by the chunk with her plastic comb and I took the opportunity to reach up for a quick scratch at my scalp. “Well, I suppose your daddy needs a lot of prayer, bless his heart. He should've known better than to raise a child in the dark. But you’re here now, baby girl. The Good Lord has put you here for a reason.”
As she wound my hair up in pink sponge curlers, she said something like, “You know the Good Lord loves you, and he wants to make sure you get in to Heaven. Once you get yourself cleansed by the Holy Spirit, Brother Wallace can baptize you in the church. Then you’ll be saved, baby girl. You’ll be a member of the church just like your daddy and me.”
“Get cleansed?” I asked her. “But I’m cleaner than ever. Patricia makes me take a bath every night.”
She told me Brother Wallace would be there to understand the spirit as it starts to speak through me. She said I gotta talk in some foreign language called Tongues, which sounds like a lot of slobber talk to me and of course I don’t know any foreign languages. I tried scratching between the curlers again, but she swatted my hand away. I told her how I was having a hard enough time with English, that my third grade vocabulary tests weren’t always A’s and B’s, but she just giggled. “You’ll do just fine, baby girl,” she said. I don’t know why she keeps calling me that. I looked in the mirror and sure enough, I was just as big as any nine-year-old. “Now let’s get this dress on. We’re running late.”
The dress made me feel like a real wuss, but Sister Sandra’s daughter, Nicolette, had one on just like it. And there weren’t really any other kids to worry about seeing me in all those ruffles. It was mostly old people. Anyway, Nicolette sat next to me just like Grandmother said. She was good about minding her manners, which is fine and all, but I thought we’d get to play a game or something while the adults listened to the big bald man up front. Instead, she just sat there messing with the tip of her long blonde braid. Once in a while, the bald guy would get all wiggly in that white suit of his, and he’d get so loud that I couldn’t help but stare. Of course I know it’s not polite to stare, but it probably just looked like I was paying attention or something ‘cus my Grandmother didn’t scold me about it. Anyway, Nicolette seemed pretty used to it. She just reached in her sparkly purse to grab a bag full of candy and since she’s my sister now, I figured she should probably share. So, I held my hand out. She passed me a green one. As I started to open up the plastic wrapper, one of the women yelled real loud, like she saw a ghost or something. “Hallelujah!” I looked around for floating fog bubbles. Then another one said, “Amen! Praise Jesus!” I just couldn’t believe how rude they were, shouting out like that while the big bald man was making his speech, and I didn’t see any ghosts to be screaming about. But Brother Wallace kept going like it was nothing. He just got louder and louder until I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. He seemed real mad, but not at the old ladies who tried to interrupt him. I couldn’t tell who he was mad at. People started standing up from the benches and waving their hands in the air, whining and hollering some sort of jibber jabber. They seemed upset too. I looked up at Grandmother and she just kept nodding her head up and down, looking serious as ever.
“The Good Lord is here tonight, Allison,” Grandmother told me. She leaned over me and looked at Nicolette. “You wanna take my granddaughter up to the front?”
Nicolette said “Yes ma’am,” and took my hand.
Suddenly, I got real scared. I looked around for the Good Lord, but I just saw some people getting up to sit behind a bunch of music instruments at the bottom of the stage. Seemed like everyone thought that was a good time to start walking around, even though Brother Wallace was still making his speech. I stood up and followed Nicolette. As we walked in the aisle, a chubby lady jumped in front of us and started crying like a big baby. She threw her arms up in the air and hopped up and down. Then another lady with a long braid like Nicolette’s reached out for the crying woman and helped her walk up to the front.
If it weren’t for the loud music playing, I think everyone in that building would have heard my heart thumping like it’s never thumped before.
Nicolette and I kept on moving towards the front, following right behind the two ladies, and my Grandmother followed too. I figured we’d do some dancing or something, but the ladies kept walking straight up to Brother Wallace. He kept wiggling in that white suit of his, hoopin’ and hollarin’ as loud as he could, but I guess he sensed people looking up at him. He turned to the cry-baby lady and grabbed the top of her head. He started shaking her bun loose! Her hair was getting all messed up, but she didn’t seem to care all that much. She was too busy making a fuss. She was crying so hard that I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. I guessed it was more jibber jabber, but then I realized she was speaking in tongues, like Grandmother was telling me about. Of course I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but it seemed like she was begging Brother Wallace for something. I thought about how Grandmother said he’s supposed to be the only one who understands this stuff, so I wondered why he didn’t just give the lady what she was asking for. A big blob of sweat dropped from that big bald head of his and landed smack dab on the lady’s arm. I don’t know if she could feel it or not, but he didn’t even try to apologize. I looked at Nicolette, hoping she still had her purse with her. I thought the lady could use one of those Jolly Ranchers right about now, but Nicolette looked a little busy. She had her eyes closed tight and she was dancing around a little bit. I guessed she was enjoying the music or something, so I didn’t want to interrupt.
All of a sudden, everyone was standing around us, patting shoulders and singing, hopping around, and some were crying just like the fussy lady. Some of the men were crying too, but they kept to one side of the church while the woman stood on the other.
Nicolette opened her eyes and smiled at me. She grabbed my hand again and asked, “Are you going to get the Holy Ghost tonight?”
“Well I’d try, but I can’t see him,” I told her.
“No silly. You can’t see it. You feel it. Once you step up to Brother Wallace to get prayed for, he’ll lay his hands on you and then you’ll start feelin’ the Holy Ghost. Watch me. I’ll show you.”
The fussy lady must’ve fallen to the floor while I was looking around. She had a bunch of other ladies circled around her, whipping her face with tissues and holding her arms up in the air. Nicolette stepped up to where the fussy lady had been, right under Brother Wallace. She held her arms up and he started shaking her head. Before I could blink, she was going through the same fussy business; crying, jibber-jabber, wiggling all over the place – the works! I looked back at Grandmother. She was crying too. All these big babies were starting to give me a head ache!
Grandmother put her arm around me. She took a few steps forward, dragging me along, and suddenly, there I was, right in front of the head shaker himself! I looked up to see two giant man-paws coming down on me. I was done for. If I wanted to get this over with, I was gonna have to start speakin’ the jibber jabber pretty quick, and I thought maybe I should turn on the water works just be extra sure. So, I raised my arms and out of nowhere, six different pairs of hands were landed on my back. Some were stretching my arms up even higher. I closed my eyes and started thinking about my old puppy Max who died last year. I figured that’d make me cry, but it wasn’t working.
A voice from behind me screamed in my ear something like, “Talk to Him, Sister Maggie! Shuckanamakulotista! Yes, praise Jesus, baby. Talk to Him. Tell him you love him. Hallelujia!” And then another one leaned into my other ear and said, “Let it out, child! Shout to Jesus!” I wasn’t sure if it was their nasty cry-baby breath that did the trick, or if it was all the yelling in my ears, but either way, I just couldn’t help it! All that shaking on my head and all the hollarin’ just about made my heart jump up in my throat and suddenly, I was dropping fat tears out of my eyes like rain from the sky. The second it all started rolling down my cheeks, Brother Wallace went on yelling even louder than before.
“This young soul will be saved tonight!” he said. “Let that mighty river of the Holy Ghost wash over you, sweet child. Yes! Speak the word of the spirit through this young person tonight, God. Let her be a servant unto you. Yes! The Good Lord is here tonight, child. Hallelujah!”
With the floor shaking like it was, I thought maybe the church was starting to break in half. So I had to take a peek around me. I opened one eye, just a bit, and took a look around. I saw Nicolette had fallen to the floor just like that other lady did. She was kicking and waving her arms above her head. She made fists with her hands like she wanted to throw a few punches or something and she kept screaming that slobber talk. When I went back to closing both eyes, I thought about all this Heaven talk I’ve been hearing about. I figured if I went on babbling made-up words real fast, I’d get to see the place with pearly gates and golden floors. Or was it golden gates and pearly floors..? I can’t remember, but I didn’t wanna miss out on all the fun. And I thought maybe this Holy Ghost guy would leave presents under my tree if I put on a big fuss for him. It seemed awful funny, Santa having a ghost for a sidekick... It was kinda like mixing Christmas with Halloween. But I didn’t care, just as long as I’d get to see the North Pole while I’m up there.
Brother Wallace kept on yelling even though it sounded like he needed to clear his throat and the ladies kept huddling around me like a bunch of squawking penguins, screaming in my ears. It wasn’t all that hard to keep crying. I mean, just between us, I was kind of scared. My stomach sure was churning up some butterflies, but I started yelling right along with everybody else. As soon as I told Jesus I loved him, real loud-like, everyone started pulling on my arms even harder, breathing in my ears even faster, getting louder, and Brother Wallace nearly shook the freckles off my face.
Back at school, I’ve got this friend Veronica. She’s from Mexico. She taught me how to roll my tongue real fast so that I could make a funny whistle sound. So, since I didn’t really know what to say to Brother Wallace, I just started rolling my tongue real fast. And I was blubbering like a baby too. A lady started talking that jibber jabber in my ear and so I kind of said some stuff she said, mixed in with my own stuff. “Shalakala Balamana Blah!” I said. I looked around with one eye again, just real quick. I wanted to see if I could find any foggy stuff flying around, but no luck. The folks around me seemed to like my slobber talk just fine. They squealed like a bunch of hyenas when I did it, so I gave them some more. “Shalaka jamania m’biki shiquira bamana!” Then I rolled my tongue again. With all that hoopin’ and hollerin’, you’d think I just kissed a boy or something! I looked around one more time, but still, no foggy ghost guy. I figured maybe he’d come along if I fell to the floor like Nicolette did, like if I flopped around like a fried egg on a skillet or something, and man! All those people in the church loved it! They clapped their hands and hopped up and down real hard. I could feel the floor thumping under me. When I opened both eyes, I saw twenty different faces all grinning at me. My Grandmother was right there too. She was crying even harder now, but she was smiling all the same.
“You did it, baby girl! You got the Holy Ghost!” she told me.
"That's it?!" I whispered.
. . . Looking back, I’m pretty sure there weren’t any ghosts or spirits jumping inside of me, but I was feeling kind of funny that night. Grandmother says I was drunk in the spirit. I asked her if I’d have a hangover in the morning like dad said, but she just kissed my forehead and looked back up at Brother Wallace. He was a little quieter after we all went back to our seats, which was nice. And Nicolette gave me another Jolly Rancher. This time, it was red – my favorite!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Neither Here Nor There...
The way I see it, we don't have a recent history of politically conscious intellectuals taking the majority at the polls. The majority seem to consist of "Joe Six-Packs" and "Hockey Moms" (i.e. people voting for the down-to-earth, less articulate candidates). Perhaps the majority find it more crutial to identify with the runner, as opposed to make a note of the runners education, experience, relative knowledge, etc. Fair enough. But with this Palin business, I'm more worried than ever. As we have all speculated, she’s only a "heart beat away" and all that jazz. However, Karl Rove (whoever that is? - I'll admit, I'm no more educated than Palin...) projects 273 electoral votes for Obama, says Yahoo.com. As far as I understand, the politically educated are behind these electoral votes, assuming we voted in the right Reps... So that leads me to believe our electoral college might just save us from impending doom this time around. It would blow my mind if any of them felt McCain and Palin were worth the risk.
With that said, I have started praying again for the first time in ten years...
On another note, New York is showing promise of a beautiful season. I'm looking forward to my first fall in the Northeast. Once a week, I fall in love with this city for a day, leaving mild resentment and homesickness, dreams of the Pacific Northwest, toleration, and/or boredom for the remaining six days. Today is my day to fall in love again. It has been nothing more than a day spent with myself, consisting of laundry, toiletry shopping, and preparation for next weeks workshop while lounging in a coffee house. Nevertheless, I have decided for today, I'm happy here. On the other six days a week, I contemplate moving home come mid-December and going back to school. On the rare occasion much like today when I am pink in the cheeks and all smiles, I contemplate online courses and another six months here with the nanny family.
It's all up in the air; politics and personal plans alike. It will be an interesting season indeed!
With that said, I have started praying again for the first time in ten years...
On another note, New York is showing promise of a beautiful season. I'm looking forward to my first fall in the Northeast. Once a week, I fall in love with this city for a day, leaving mild resentment and homesickness, dreams of the Pacific Northwest, toleration, and/or boredom for the remaining six days. Today is my day to fall in love again. It has been nothing more than a day spent with myself, consisting of laundry, toiletry shopping, and preparation for next weeks workshop while lounging in a coffee house. Nevertheless, I have decided for today, I'm happy here. On the other six days a week, I contemplate moving home come mid-December and going back to school. On the rare occasion much like today when I am pink in the cheeks and all smiles, I contemplate online courses and another six months here with the nanny family.
It's all up in the air; politics and personal plans alike. It will be an interesting season indeed!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Privileged
Privileged is a new show on basic cable about a quirky redhead named Megan. She's a writer who moves in with the rich to tutor two girls.
Seriously.
Seriously.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Writing Workshop (...with wine!)
I truly meant to make the six copies of my short story during the weekend. I had every intention of being prepared two days in advance. Regardless, my efforts began shortly before 5:30pm leaving me ninety minutes before the workshop begins with or without me. I scrambled to find my old flash drive, loaded it with the essential, hopped on my bike, and darted for Staples. Two blocks later, I crossed a busy avenue during rush hour and it seems sensible to travel via sidewalk. Unfortunately, an older woman with two bag fulls of groceries got in my way. Damn pedestrians and their sidewalks. Didn't their mommas teach them to share? And what about watching for traffic? I distinctly remember screaming WATCH OUT before running over her with my 10-speed. Consequentially, I flew over my handlebars. The momentum sent me to the pavement and two somersaults later, I'm lying there worried about a skinned elbow - moaning and groaning like the big baby that I am. I heard the woman scramble to my side and ask if I was alright. Considering I have just busted every single one of her fresh eggs, I'm thinking she's a saint for even showing me the slightest bit of concern. Damn pedestiran . . . Now she's gone and made me feel guilty. I leapt to my feet and apologized sincerely three times, maybe four, lunged for the over-turned sack of groceries, and returned the question. "Are you ok?!" Damn pedestrian . . . She hugged me.
With a mild burning sensation coming from my left knee, I stood in line at Staples. Two heads in front of me, a heavy Brooklyn accent scolded the clerk I so desperately needed to see and with the large clock on the wall, I was all too aware of time. 5:47! Sure, the subway directory webiste said it would only take thirty-six minutes to get there, but that doesn't include the time it will take me to recover from getting lost! And I still haven't even made the copies of my story, thanks to the lady in large gold hoop earrings and her loud accent.
At 5:57, I shoved the stapled manuscripts into an unagreeable heap at the bottom of my purse, hopped back on the barely-functioning bicycle, and pedaled hard for the train station.
Having never been to Cobble Hill before, I knew it would happen. As I wound in and out of neighborhoods, I patted myself on the back for leaving extra early. I was lost, as anticipated. Nevertheless, I was the first to arrive - fifteen minutes early. The conductor, Rachel, sat near the front window amoung five empty chairs and greeted me as I came in. I found her to be surprisingly young and attractive, which may have been a contributing factor to our quick ability to get lost in conversation. As a twenty-something young female, she was relatable, which was easy to appreciate.
Three more females showed up - all in their twenties. But don't worry. The lack of diversity turned out to be a good thing as we found ourselves very comfortable with each other in no time at all. At the end, after two glasses of wine each, one of the writers suggested continuing the night with a slumber party, which sent us all into giggles.
Rachel had us do two writing exercises. The first exercise was to spend 20 minutes writing about two every-day people (any people) sharing a meal together (a life changing meal). Where are they? What's the discussion? What are they eating? And what's the risk? All questions needed to be answered.
This is what poured out of me:
The two-top seemed an unlikely setting for Thurston to meet his father. It was placed on a small patio along a barron city sidewalk with nothing more than a ketchup bottle and one salt shaker to offer the guests. No pepper. Perhaps the beads of sweat on his furrowed brow would have been less noticable if there were more pedestrians crowding the atmosphere, customers dining at dusk, or pesky servers pushing for an order in hopes of moving their mundane workshift along. Alas, ("Alas"??? I'm not sure what I was thinking with that word) the burger joint was slow causing Thurstron's resentment to boil. How could he be late? How can a man go through such great lengths to contact his son, a son left to the wolves as a defensless infant, only to leave him high and dry yet again?
A drop of water fell from the awning where rain had gathered only hours before and landed on Thurston's fidgetting hand. A voice reeking of emphazima growled from behind the young man, "Hello." Thurston turned to face the surprisingly short man.
"Hi. I almost ordered for you," Thurston quickly began, "but the waiter hasn't been around. They've got good burgers here. I figure everyone likes a good burger, yeah? They've got one with feta cheese that's alright, if you like feta."
Thurston's obvious nervous babble placed a warm smile on his estranged father's face, "I'm not all that hungry." He lit a cigarette, took a seat in front of Thurston, and continued to smile as he looked into his child's eyes for the first time in twenty-six years.
"So how come you wanna do this? Why now?"
"Good. I'm not looking to shoot the shit either, small-talk and all that... I'll go ahead and spell it out for you, my boy--"
"My boy?"
"My name, as you know, is Lou. It sure is nice to finally meet you. You see, I'm not looking for money, but I'm not no dying rich man looking to send an inheritance your way either. I'm not looking to say I'm sorry. I don't really feel all that guilty. If you wanna hate someone, hate your momma. I'm not looking for a young buddy, to feed off your youth... See now, I'm just a big fan! And I hear you and your Sonic Youth buddies are looking for a drummer. And it just so happens I've got a kit back home in the garage."
One girl wrote about a woman leaving her husband after twenty-some-odd years of marriage, another wrote about a clingy mother and her sympathtic boy, and the third wrote about a woman and her teenaged daughter at the clinic awaiting the results from a pregnancy test. The last line revealed the mother's name was Sarah Palin. We all rolled with laughter.
Our next exercise was to express an emotion using one of the characters from the previous exercise using a beach as the setting. The catch was... we weren't allowed to use the word or any of its synonyms. We were each handed a word in private and after reading our paragraphs allowed, the others would try to guess the emotion we attempted to express.
I wrote:
Lou stabbed one bare ingrown toe into the loose sand and crossed his meaty arms. His basset hound cheeks were sagging even more than usual following the underturned corners of his mouth. As his beer belly grew tense from the fit of nerves inside, a bit of flatulence escaped from the sagging Levi's and floated up to his slumped shoulders. The Budweiser mixed with his churning gut created a moist scent even he turned his nose up at, but the ocean breeze quickly swept it away, leaving Lou alone with the bitter taste of rejection between his grinding teeth.
(I'll tell you the word I was given at the end of this post.)
We handed each other the copies of our short stories, the stories we all hope will evolve into published pieces shortly after the conclusion of this workshop. Over the next week, we'll read each story and include our thoughts in red ink along the way. Next week, we'll share. We finished our last sips of wine and walked with each other to the train. Upon saying our goodbyes, I hustled home to relieve my employers for a date night while thinking fondly of my first experience with a New York writing workshop. However, I watched closely for the little old ladies.
(My word: distraught)
With a mild burning sensation coming from my left knee, I stood in line at Staples. Two heads in front of me, a heavy Brooklyn accent scolded the clerk I so desperately needed to see and with the large clock on the wall, I was all too aware of time. 5:47! Sure, the subway directory webiste said it would only take thirty-six minutes to get there, but that doesn't include the time it will take me to recover from getting lost! And I still haven't even made the copies of my story, thanks to the lady in large gold hoop earrings and her loud accent.
At 5:57, I shoved the stapled manuscripts into an unagreeable heap at the bottom of my purse, hopped back on the barely-functioning bicycle, and pedaled hard for the train station.
Having never been to Cobble Hill before, I knew it would happen. As I wound in and out of neighborhoods, I patted myself on the back for leaving extra early. I was lost, as anticipated. Nevertheless, I was the first to arrive - fifteen minutes early. The conductor, Rachel, sat near the front window amoung five empty chairs and greeted me as I came in. I found her to be surprisingly young and attractive, which may have been a contributing factor to our quick ability to get lost in conversation. As a twenty-something young female, she was relatable, which was easy to appreciate.
Three more females showed up - all in their twenties. But don't worry. The lack of diversity turned out to be a good thing as we found ourselves very comfortable with each other in no time at all. At the end, after two glasses of wine each, one of the writers suggested continuing the night with a slumber party, which sent us all into giggles.
Rachel had us do two writing exercises. The first exercise was to spend 20 minutes writing about two every-day people (any people) sharing a meal together (a life changing meal). Where are they? What's the discussion? What are they eating? And what's the risk? All questions needed to be answered.
This is what poured out of me:
The two-top seemed an unlikely setting for Thurston to meet his father. It was placed on a small patio along a barron city sidewalk with nothing more than a ketchup bottle and one salt shaker to offer the guests. No pepper. Perhaps the beads of sweat on his furrowed brow would have been less noticable if there were more pedestrians crowding the atmosphere, customers dining at dusk, or pesky servers pushing for an order in hopes of moving their mundane workshift along. Alas, ("Alas"??? I'm not sure what I was thinking with that word) the burger joint was slow causing Thurstron's resentment to boil. How could he be late? How can a man go through such great lengths to contact his son, a son left to the wolves as a defensless infant, only to leave him high and dry yet again?
A drop of water fell from the awning where rain had gathered only hours before and landed on Thurston's fidgetting hand. A voice reeking of emphazima growled from behind the young man, "Hello." Thurston turned to face the surprisingly short man.
"Hi. I almost ordered for you," Thurston quickly began, "but the waiter hasn't been around. They've got good burgers here. I figure everyone likes a good burger, yeah? They've got one with feta cheese that's alright, if you like feta."
Thurston's obvious nervous babble placed a warm smile on his estranged father's face, "I'm not all that hungry." He lit a cigarette, took a seat in front of Thurston, and continued to smile as he looked into his child's eyes for the first time in twenty-six years.
"So how come you wanna do this? Why now?"
"Good. I'm not looking to shoot the shit either, small-talk and all that... I'll go ahead and spell it out for you, my boy--"
"My boy?"
"My name, as you know, is Lou. It sure is nice to finally meet you. You see, I'm not looking for money, but I'm not no dying rich man looking to send an inheritance your way either. I'm not looking to say I'm sorry. I don't really feel all that guilty. If you wanna hate someone, hate your momma. I'm not looking for a young buddy, to feed off your youth... See now, I'm just a big fan! And I hear you and your Sonic Youth buddies are looking for a drummer. And it just so happens I've got a kit back home in the garage."
One girl wrote about a woman leaving her husband after twenty-some-odd years of marriage, another wrote about a clingy mother and her sympathtic boy, and the third wrote about a woman and her teenaged daughter at the clinic awaiting the results from a pregnancy test. The last line revealed the mother's name was Sarah Palin. We all rolled with laughter.
Our next exercise was to express an emotion using one of the characters from the previous exercise using a beach as the setting. The catch was... we weren't allowed to use the word or any of its synonyms. We were each handed a word in private and after reading our paragraphs allowed, the others would try to guess the emotion we attempted to express.
I wrote:
Lou stabbed one bare ingrown toe into the loose sand and crossed his meaty arms. His basset hound cheeks were sagging even more than usual following the underturned corners of his mouth. As his beer belly grew tense from the fit of nerves inside, a bit of flatulence escaped from the sagging Levi's and floated up to his slumped shoulders. The Budweiser mixed with his churning gut created a moist scent even he turned his nose up at, but the ocean breeze quickly swept it away, leaving Lou alone with the bitter taste of rejection between his grinding teeth.
(I'll tell you the word I was given at the end of this post.)
We handed each other the copies of our short stories, the stories we all hope will evolve into published pieces shortly after the conclusion of this workshop. Over the next week, we'll read each story and include our thoughts in red ink along the way. Next week, we'll share. We finished our last sips of wine and walked with each other to the train. Upon saying our goodbyes, I hustled home to relieve my employers for a date night while thinking fondly of my first experience with a New York writing workshop. However, I watched closely for the little old ladies.
(My word: distraught)
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Life As I Know It
With school now in full swing, my routine has changed a bit. My employers and I take turns with the morning shift (getting the girls fed, dressed, packed, and walked to school). In which case, two or three mornings out of the week, I'm permitted to sleep in until 10:45! Once I scoop up the little one from pre-school, we have four hours just for the two of us. Sometimes we go to the park until she's ready for lunch and then we head back for the house. After she's had her fill of chicken noodle soup, she embarks on an imaginative adventure in her bedroom while I lie around in my room, occasionally eavesdropping. By three o'clock, it's time to pick up the big sister. We stop for icecream on the way home, settle in for homework, and then watch a little TV or play seriously thought out games of make-believe. (I'm often playing the part of a wicked witch or a michevious classmate.) Before I know it, my "work" day has come to an end. Suddenly, five o'clock rolls around and everyone is home, chatting about our day and sharing the interesting details that made it special. It's a rare occasion when I don't join the clan for dinner, but soon after, I'm typically getting ready for a night out with Morgan (my closest gal-pal in Brooklyn), or hopping in my PJs for movie night (which often includes having a beer or two with the adults).
When the weekend rolls around, there seem to be endless opporunities, despite my social cirlce being so small. I've decided to keep an open mind and try whatever comes my way. For instance, last Friday night, a friend called to say, "Hey! It's Fashion Week. There's a party on the lower east side."
"Does this mean I have to take extra care in what I wear?"
He could hear the apprehension in my voice, "Just be yourself."
"Is this the kind of club where they turn girls away at the door if they don't look the part?"
"Well, yes. But don't worry, you're with me," says the socialite.
"I suppose this is going to be an experience. . ."
Six hours later I'm walking slowly through the pouring rain, searching for an entrance to the F train, and pining for my cozy bed. I'm thinking, 'At least I wore boots.'
. . . It was not much of an experience after all.
Nevertheless, I'm game for just about anything. The weather has been incredible and its imperative that I spend as much time outside as possible.
Sunday rolls around and I fight the urge to lie around. Laundry must get done.
Am I getting any writing done? NO - I'm not. As soon as I submitted my payment and registration form for this damn workshop, I lost all drive to think productively. However, my finances are ship-shape. Go figure, eh? Who moves to New York City and manages to pay off old bills? (I have my over-accomodating employers to thank for this.) I had four maxed-out credit cards when I got here. Two have been paid off since then and a third will be paid off at the end of this month.
(Making Momma proud.)
I'm happy and things are good. I have no complaints. However, I can't held but feel an itchy sensation on the soles of my feet. I'm getting anxious, dreaming about the Pacific Northwest, finding myself jealous of friends in Europe, and wishing I had my camping equipment on-hand. Exactly what would I do with it here in New York? Not sure... But the urge is there.
I'm mad about this family and its clear they want me here for a considerate amount of time, but I'm feeling rushed to see the world. I'm not quite sure what the pressure is all about. I keep reminding myself I'm only twenty-three, but I often feel as if everyone else is passing me up. I want to see it all and I want to see it all RIGHT NOW!
My boss just came in to share a cigarette and a night cap with me on my fire escape. . .
You see, we had company this weekend. Aunt, Uncle, and their two boys. The aunt mentioned an old friend here in NY that she'd like to catch up with and my boss, being the considerate hostess that she is, suggested throwing a dinner party. A couple in their early thirties joined us for pasta tonight and as soon as dinner was over, I quickly did my part with clean-up and excused myself for some alone time. Now with everyone gone, the misses and I catch up on the tidbits I missed out on while hiding out in my room. Apparently, the devil was in my living room tonight. One of our guests announced proudly that she is a news writer for none other than FOX News!
I love that she and I can get giggles together over things like that.
Ugh - SEE? Do you see my delimma? I'm attatched. I love these people! How can I ever leave them after they've been so good to me? Obviously I can't stay forever, but even another nine months seems like an eternity when I could be galavanting around the world.
This post is all over the place. My applogies for the lack of structure, but I feel like that's where my mind is at right now, despite my comfortable routine.
Advice?
When the weekend rolls around, there seem to be endless opporunities, despite my social cirlce being so small. I've decided to keep an open mind and try whatever comes my way. For instance, last Friday night, a friend called to say, "Hey! It's Fashion Week. There's a party on the lower east side."
"Does this mean I have to take extra care in what I wear?"
He could hear the apprehension in my voice, "Just be yourself."
"Is this the kind of club where they turn girls away at the door if they don't look the part?"
"Well, yes. But don't worry, you're with me," says the socialite.
"I suppose this is going to be an experience. . ."
Six hours later I'm walking slowly through the pouring rain, searching for an entrance to the F train, and pining for my cozy bed. I'm thinking, 'At least I wore boots.'
. . . It was not much of an experience after all.
Nevertheless, I'm game for just about anything. The weather has been incredible and its imperative that I spend as much time outside as possible.
Sunday rolls around and I fight the urge to lie around. Laundry must get done.
Am I getting any writing done? NO - I'm not. As soon as I submitted my payment and registration form for this damn workshop, I lost all drive to think productively. However, my finances are ship-shape. Go figure, eh? Who moves to New York City and manages to pay off old bills? (I have my over-accomodating employers to thank for this.) I had four maxed-out credit cards when I got here. Two have been paid off since then and a third will be paid off at the end of this month.
(Making Momma proud.)
I'm happy and things are good. I have no complaints. However, I can't held but feel an itchy sensation on the soles of my feet. I'm getting anxious, dreaming about the Pacific Northwest, finding myself jealous of friends in Europe, and wishing I had my camping equipment on-hand. Exactly what would I do with it here in New York? Not sure... But the urge is there.
I'm mad about this family and its clear they want me here for a considerate amount of time, but I'm feeling rushed to see the world. I'm not quite sure what the pressure is all about. I keep reminding myself I'm only twenty-three, but I often feel as if everyone else is passing me up. I want to see it all and I want to see it all RIGHT NOW!
My boss just came in to share a cigarette and a night cap with me on my fire escape. . .
You see, we had company this weekend. Aunt, Uncle, and their two boys. The aunt mentioned an old friend here in NY that she'd like to catch up with and my boss, being the considerate hostess that she is, suggested throwing a dinner party. A couple in their early thirties joined us for pasta tonight and as soon as dinner was over, I quickly did my part with clean-up and excused myself for some alone time. Now with everyone gone, the misses and I catch up on the tidbits I missed out on while hiding out in my room. Apparently, the devil was in my living room tonight. One of our guests announced proudly that she is a news writer for none other than FOX News!
I love that she and I can get giggles together over things like that.
Ugh - SEE? Do you see my delimma? I'm attatched. I love these people! How can I ever leave them after they've been so good to me? Obviously I can't stay forever, but even another nine months seems like an eternity when I could be galavanting around the world.
This post is all over the place. My applogies for the lack of structure, but I feel like that's where my mind is at right now, despite my comfortable routine.
Advice?
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Palin's Speech
Election years are too much fun! ...I'll be the first to admit that, when Bush was first elected, I was more concerned with convincing my mom to buy me a pair of Doc Martin boots and whether or not Dawson would finally tell Joey he loved her on the next episode of Dawson's Creek. But by the time '04 came around, I was all ears. I had been running with a new crowd, with folks that wore campaign t-shirts and spit out political banter over a Friday night BBQ. Considering I was lucky enough to have parents with a similar take on the whole shebang, I was able to regurgitate my mother's ventings during these intellectually driven conversations. Thanks to Mom, I was able to hold my own among the eclectic college co-ed party scene.
Now, however, it's a whole different ballgame! I can't tear my eyes away. I nolonger need Mom's opinions to front my phoney contributions. I'm actaully captivated. Why anyone wouldn't want to cash in on this entertainment value is beyond me. We've got the black man running for prez on the left and the potential female VP on the right. Either way, this is it! This is history in the making! So of course I watched as Palin introduced herself to the country today as McCain's choice VP. I found it especially hard to avoid CNN tonight considering the controversy that seems to follow this Palin chick. I couldn't wait to see if she would address the home-grown drama or not.
Here's my opinion:
I kinda like the broad! I mean, here's a woman that can bust out with a zinger or two! (Grandma, this "zinger" I speak of is new slang for a clever punch-in-the-gut insult.) (And yes, the credit should really be given to whoever wrote the speech, but nevertheless, I was impressed with her ability to deliver it so well.) And she's got this down-to-earth appeal. I love how she brushed off the controversial focus the media has had on her family and a moment later, the camera spots her little girl cradling that baby boy, slapping spit on the palm of her hand and adjusting the baby boy's disheveled hair. Sure, she didn't say anything very substantial. The few things that stood out (i.e. how she got rid of the Governor's private jet to save $ and the story about McCain's torturous experience while serving with a thumbs up... I'd like to know how much of that was actually true.) Aside from that, she failed to cover the question we've all been dying to get answered in regard to her foreign affairs experience. Still, she had me smiling. I gotta give it to her. She's got charisma!
This election has me bright eye'd and bushy-tailed. Unfortunately, if I want to continue collecting my unemployment checks, I can't register to vote in NY. So, as I said before, this can be nothing more to me than entertainment value - and what a lovely source of entertainment it is!
Thanks America!
Now, however, it's a whole different ballgame! I can't tear my eyes away. I nolonger need Mom's opinions to front my phoney contributions. I'm actaully captivated. Why anyone wouldn't want to cash in on this entertainment value is beyond me. We've got the black man running for prez on the left and the potential female VP on the right. Either way, this is it! This is history in the making! So of course I watched as Palin introduced herself to the country today as McCain's choice VP. I found it especially hard to avoid CNN tonight considering the controversy that seems to follow this Palin chick. I couldn't wait to see if she would address the home-grown drama or not.
Here's my opinion:
I kinda like the broad! I mean, here's a woman that can bust out with a zinger or two! (Grandma, this "zinger" I speak of is new slang for a clever punch-in-the-gut insult.) (And yes, the credit should really be given to whoever wrote the speech, but nevertheless, I was impressed with her ability to deliver it so well.) And she's got this down-to-earth appeal. I love how she brushed off the controversial focus the media has had on her family and a moment later, the camera spots her little girl cradling that baby boy, slapping spit on the palm of her hand and adjusting the baby boy's disheveled hair. Sure, she didn't say anything very substantial. The few things that stood out (i.e. how she got rid of the Governor's private jet to save $ and the story about McCain's torturous experience while serving with a thumbs up... I'd like to know how much of that was actually true.) Aside from that, she failed to cover the question we've all been dying to get answered in regard to her foreign affairs experience. Still, she had me smiling. I gotta give it to her. She's got charisma!
This election has me bright eye'd and bushy-tailed. Unfortunately, if I want to continue collecting my unemployment checks, I can't register to vote in NY. So, as I said before, this can be nothing more to me than entertainment value - and what a lovely source of entertainment it is!
Thanks America!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Making Progress
I've decided to join a writer's workshop here in Brooklyn. I'll sit in a cozy bookshop for two hours a week with five other aspiring hopefuls and two published authors. For $210, I'll get eight weeks of steady attention and help on my structure, which I feel is beyond necessary. The wine is part of the package deal... :) At the end, there's something called a "publishing party" where we'll each be match with literary journals and magazine that best fit our genre and style. We'll spend all night prepping several submissions with the two experienced writers, and then we'll all cross our fingers.
I'm hopeful!
I'm hopeful!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Holy Ghost
This story has been deleted, but only for a little while! I submitted it to a literary journal that does not allow their work to be posted on personal blogs. So, if they reject me... the story will return.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Project Humiliation
San Antonio held me back. I had an inconveniently large network of friends that kept me from my writing a little too often. However, here I am, Ms. Annonymous, a suddenly-shy-for-the-first-time-in-her-life young girl in New York City. It can be a lonely place, but at least I'm able to get into my writing again. And since I don't have much to report, I thought I'd post one of the short stories. Now, be warned that my style has evolved into a brutal, sarcastic, often overdramatic smorgasbord of words. It can be a bit dark for those of you who remember me and my life as a pre-teen... Just keep in mind the ending is fiction!
Project Humiliation – A Memoire
Looking back on the little-me, circa mid-90s, I’m a three-foot-nothing redhead with freckles, dirt under my fingernails, and a consistent skip in my step. When the teacher has the class read aloud, I’m always the most articulate. I can comprehend poetry from the likes of Alfred Noyes. I can use words like inconceivable and atrocious… Little-me is headstrong and confident. A wad of sticky bubble gum in my stringy hair is nothing to fret over, and while the other girls are gushing over boys and their mother’s mascara, I hardly seem to notice the mirror. In order to bring this little lady’s spirits down, it's going to take a lot more than snotty girls on the verge of puberty, girls feeling the heat of competition. It's going to take a lot more than a nasty side-tackle on the soccer field. None of this will do the trick. We'll need something absolutely humiliating. We'll need something she'll never forget. In order to really get through to this little squirt, to really make little-me feel the burn, we'll need a neon poster board and a yard stick; all Teresa's idea, of course.
She sits across the kitchen table from me, giving me the look. I’m awaiting punishment. Her long dark hair is pulled back from her face so that every wince and grimace is out in the open. The furrow in her brow is exposed. There isn't a single strand of loose hair to soften the deceptively sympathetic, yet disapproving expression on her face. It tells the eleven year old in front of her, 'I feel sorry for you. You're a mess. Your mother has ruined you, and now you'll forever be a burden.' Her thin lips press tightly as she nibbles off the skin of her bottom lip. Her elbows are resting on the mosaic dinner table. Her precious, eldest son enhanced the old table with scraps of tile left behind from the kitchen renovations. The look on her face, her posture, her positioning at the head of the table, they way she forms a triangular shape by pressing the tips of her fingers together; it's all a reminder that this is her table - her kingdom. This much I knew from day one. Even before I became aware of the cliché, I knew what it meant to be a redheaded stepchild from first hand experience.
I talked too much in class and a letter has been sent home. It has to be signed and returned the following day. No big deal. I'm just a kid who has a lot to contribute. I have an imagination. I have ideas. I get excited. That's all. There’s no need for theatrics here. A quick signature on the dotted line will suffice, thank you. And fine, maybe a lecture, but make it snappy. There’s a basketball tournament going on in the alley and I’m missing out on all the action. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize Teresa means business this time. She’s whipped up a brilliant device, a sure-fire method to shape me up. After laying out a poster board and loading it with black magic-marker ammunition, I read the bold script in horror: I WAS DISRUPTIVE IN CLASS. Both sides. I’m ordered to carry the sign around at recess on the following day as Teresa will watch with satisfaction. Project Humiliation: Accomplished.
One long march around the playground later, I’ve been cured of my know-it-all stink. Little-Me no longer has the confidence to raise her hand in class, but don't worry. Teresa's campaign for Mom of the Year won't stop there. This is merely the beginning. Like when I’ll ask her if Lana Devine can spend the night and Teresa-Darling says, "Lana Devine? Why would she want to spend the night with you? Isn't she popular?"
She's a real gem, this woman.
Within the same vicinity of time, I get my first period. I’m lucky enough to be in the comfort of my own bathroom when I get the surprise, and I know just what to do. I throw out the underwear, shower, roll up toilet paper and go quietly back to my bedroom. There's no way in hell I’m going to tell anyone about this until she can call my loving Momma who lives a quick fifteen minutes away. I'll whisper the news in private after making sure all other phone lines in the house are unplugged and then Momma will come to my rescue with a gift bag full of all the proper remedies; Midol, a Payday candy bar, Teen Magazine, tampons, pads, etc.
After five long days of going out of my way to walk behind everyone, the first crimson wave seems to be over. It comes and goes without doing any apparent damage and I feel well acquainted with the idea of becoming a woman just in time to test the waters of my newfound femininity. I’ve just discovered an unfamiliar voice coming from downstairs. My eldest stepbrother has a handsome friend over and I can't help myself from lingering a bit more than I’m welcome to. He’s a mature man of nineteen, and if anyone can pick up on the presence of a young woman on the rise, it'll be him. He'll be sure to notice! Right? . . . After half an hour of hovering, my brother kicks me out of the room. My chance to spot a twinkle in the handsome friend's eye is gone. But the following day brings hope! Big Bro asks Little-me if I'll join him on a ride to town. So, it's official. I'm one of the adults now. I imagine his handsome friend has asked about me. He must have demanded my presence at an afternoon social function. I imagine a fast food joint full of teenagers. I imagine big hair and real boobs (not the toilet-paper kind), "Holy" jeans and hair gel, loud music and laughter. Now Big Bro will have to accept the fact that his friend is madly in love with me and I'll be part of his crowd. I'll be four years older within one night! And soccer suddenly seemed like such a waste of energy.
I tell Big Bro I'll be ready in five and run to my room for a quick primp. Fifteen minutes later, we're riding in silence with the windows up and the radio turned off. Considering his windows are never rolled up and his speakers are always blaring Guns N' Roses, this isn't quite what I had in mind. Eventually we're in front of the post office. He commands me to wait in the truck, says he'll be right back. Twenty-five minutes after the enthusiastic primping, my bubble gets busted.
After getting back in the truck and getting us back on the road to home, he confesses that this isn't just a quick ride to town. He says his mother has sent him to have a talk with me. I look at him. He's nervous. His usual air of nonchalance is gone. His Elvis-like smirk is replaced with his mother's pseudo-sympathetic/disapproving expression. Both hands grip the wheel and he releases an exaggerated sigh to let me know I've gone and fucked up, yet again.
"Why did my Mom find blood on your underwear?"
Instantly, I’m shrinking behind the confinement of my safety belt and my head begins to spin. Or maybe the truck is spinning out of control. It's hard to be sure. I mumble something along the lines of, "I dunno" and the suspense music in the background starts to play. Can you feel the blood and thunder rising from my veins? How could he? And with such an accusing tone! What's the big deal? I got my period. I'm thirteen. What else do you expect? And what's with all the theatrics? …Here's a guy who barely acknowledges his pre-teen stepsister. Fair enough, perhaps. Considering I didn't meet the guy until he was nearly a grown man, considering the age gap, we aren't especially close. In fact, he intimidates me. So, why would Teresa send him out on a mission to get an explanation out of me when she already knows the truth? Why him? If she just wants to hear me fess up to the obviously inevitable, fine! But…
And then it occurs to me; What if they think its something else? What if they're actually deranged enough to believe I did this to myself? I'd seen a Lifetime movie where a girl had been cutting herself and then hiding the marks with the elastic line of her underwear. Maybe they think I'm one of those depressed chicks that can't handle pre-teen hormones. Or… Or what if they think… Oh for Christ's sake!
The look on his face reveals his perception of me, a result of his mothers influence. He's broken-hearted because he believes I'm a hopeless fuck-up. He believes – they all believe – I come from a woman who is also a hopeless fuck-up, a con-artist, a whore. Therefore, I will never be seen as anything more. I'm not even sure the wretched stepmother can see a child in me, not even back when I wore pigtails and a fudge-pop mustache. Instead, she sees my mother, or if I'm lucky enough to catch her on a good day, she'll see the bastard child of a woman who once slept with her husband. It doesn't matter that I came from a pre-Teresa affair. That's irrelevant. I'm evidence of another woman in her husband's past. I'm guilty by association without mercy, and now, within a quick glance at Big Bro, I can spot that all-too-familiar look. He's disgusted and condescendingly sympathetic. I can't be sure if he'll throw up, scream, or cry. I can see sweat on his brow and his tan skin has gone green. He's clenching his teeth and his nostrils are flexed.
He opts for a good shout, straight from the gut, "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you have sex?!"
Looking back, it's hard to remember if I cried a little or a lot in Big Bro's truck that day. I continued to mumble things like "no" and "I dunno" between sobs until we got back home, at which point, I ran and hid. I sat alone under the stairs and tried to muffle my sobs so that I couldn't be found. I cried long into the night and when I crept out, the house was still and it seemed everyone was sleeping. As I fought my thoughts that night, as well as the urge to toss and turn, too scared to make even the slightest sound, I feared the morning to come. I couldn't prepare myself with a rehearsed conversation inside the privacy of my own imagination. Probable dialogue was inconceivable and my expectations were endless one minute, void the next.
I found myself thinking about Carson Malloy…
She had her first period during class a few weeks back. She was wearing white pants with a bloody stain for all to see and I remember feeling triumphant, having just survived my first personal experience with the red tide. I'm relieved to have escaped public observation, unlike so many of my fellow classmates. I'm proud for not turning out like her, with a big red stain on my new white denim. I figure, 'I'm too smart to let something like that happen to me' and up until yesterday, I'm confident my discretion had gotten me through. I conclude that the worst is over. Yet, one restless night later, I find myself waking up drowsily to the smell of breakfast. The aroma of bacon and biscuits fill the room. For many, this is a pleasant way to rise and shine, but for me, the smell consistently sends me into a panic. I must've slept in! I'll be getting another lecture, and if I'm not at Teresa's precious table by the time the eggs are salted and spooned onto all six plates, I'll be sentenced to an earlier bedtime. Of course, my concerns with a tardy appearance at the breakfast table are quickly replaced by the memory of all that happened the day before. Suddenly, I don't care if I make it to breakfast on time. Fuck breakfast.
Eventually, I trudge my way up the stairs and keep my head down while taking my place at the table. I listen as happy voices fill the room. The middle brother has just gotten an early phone call from his girlfriend, a member of the yearbook staff. Apparently, he's been nominated "Most Comedic" for the Who's Who list. My tardiness has gone unnoticed; perhaps even my existence, at least for the time being. Everyone seems distracted from their suspicions of the alleged sexual escapades by a popularity contest. One of her boys had made Momma proud and nothing will spoil the moment.
School was a sweet escape that day, but returning to hell was unavoidable…
She'll remember her redheaded stepchild. She'll remember the spot of blood on the size too-young-for-sexual-accusations underpants and she'll remember Big Bro's reports from the night before. I'm sure he's informed her of my lies and she'll be waiting for me at the dinner table, cleared of food with nothing more than her pointy elbows and ringing hands between us. Judgments will be made, accusations will fly, and I'll be sentenced unlike never before.
Then again…
Upon returning, I'm surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the hustle and bustle throughout the house isn't all that different from an average night in Teresa's lair. The only reminder of my doom is a bad case of the stomach knots and my inability to smile, even for the sake of faking it as per usual. The house is loud with action as Big Bro jams on his electric guitar and the little one trots about with his cape flying behind him. Mr. Popularity is gabbing with a girl on the phone while watching MTV and Teresa is preoccupied with finding a lost photo album. Aside from being told to lay off the T.V. and go play outside, I seem invisible. That is, until my father stops me just before I make my way to bed. I take a few steps down the stairs before I hear him call my name. He stands up from his throne, where he sits watching CNN and he walks to the railing. He stands over me and asks me if I've ever had sex before. As I begin to shrink again, as I watch him grow six feet taller with intensity, I manage to give him an honest answer – "NO!"
I think I sneered a bit, or maybe I hated them all so much that I maintained a permanent sneer back in those days. I'd like to think I was sneering… though the look on my face probably looked more like that of a pitiful puppy. Either way, I suppose he felt disrespected. His face got all twisted and he actually raised his voice, "If a boy's penis gets close enough, the sperm can jump on your knee and run its way up until it impregnates you! Do you understand?" It was a far cry from the usual melancholy attention I was used to on his behalf.
"Yes sir."
"OK then."
"OK."
I realize at that moment that I'm more jealous of Carson Malloy and her blood-stained white pants than I'll ever be jealous of anyone ever again. If only I had bled through, creating an obvious display for the whole world to observe, this wouldn't be happening. I'd call home and Teresa would be forced to pick me up and let me spend the rest of the day at home. Perhaps she would have been sincerely sympathetic and maybe she would have made an attempt at being nice to me. At school, I'd be called a few names, but it would only last two weeks and then everyone would forget. Two months later, chances are I would forget. If only I had been so lucky. If only! Instead, I’m forever scarred with this memory-in-detail. But with said memory nearly thirteen years behind me now, I can be found in Time Square. I’m easy to spot if you’re a tourist, easy to overlook if you’re a local. My red hair, still stringy, harbors a wad of sticky gum near my chin and the stench coming from my crotch is a hard to dismiss. But don’t mistake this conclusion for a pity-party. It’s actually a very touching outcome. You see, I’m out there sticking it to ‘ol Teresa. As I carry a neon sign high over my head throughout the city crowd, reading I’M LIKE OBAMA - I WANT CHANGE, I smile with pride. Not a hint of humiliation.
Project Humiliation – A Memoire
Looking back on the little-me, circa mid-90s, I’m a three-foot-nothing redhead with freckles, dirt under my fingernails, and a consistent skip in my step. When the teacher has the class read aloud, I’m always the most articulate. I can comprehend poetry from the likes of Alfred Noyes. I can use words like inconceivable and atrocious… Little-me is headstrong and confident. A wad of sticky bubble gum in my stringy hair is nothing to fret over, and while the other girls are gushing over boys and their mother’s mascara, I hardly seem to notice the mirror. In order to bring this little lady’s spirits down, it's going to take a lot more than snotty girls on the verge of puberty, girls feeling the heat of competition. It's going to take a lot more than a nasty side-tackle on the soccer field. None of this will do the trick. We'll need something absolutely humiliating. We'll need something she'll never forget. In order to really get through to this little squirt, to really make little-me feel the burn, we'll need a neon poster board and a yard stick; all Teresa's idea, of course.
She sits across the kitchen table from me, giving me the look. I’m awaiting punishment. Her long dark hair is pulled back from her face so that every wince and grimace is out in the open. The furrow in her brow is exposed. There isn't a single strand of loose hair to soften the deceptively sympathetic, yet disapproving expression on her face. It tells the eleven year old in front of her, 'I feel sorry for you. You're a mess. Your mother has ruined you, and now you'll forever be a burden.' Her thin lips press tightly as she nibbles off the skin of her bottom lip. Her elbows are resting on the mosaic dinner table. Her precious, eldest son enhanced the old table with scraps of tile left behind from the kitchen renovations. The look on her face, her posture, her positioning at the head of the table, they way she forms a triangular shape by pressing the tips of her fingers together; it's all a reminder that this is her table - her kingdom. This much I knew from day one. Even before I became aware of the cliché, I knew what it meant to be a redheaded stepchild from first hand experience.
I talked too much in class and a letter has been sent home. It has to be signed and returned the following day. No big deal. I'm just a kid who has a lot to contribute. I have an imagination. I have ideas. I get excited. That's all. There’s no need for theatrics here. A quick signature on the dotted line will suffice, thank you. And fine, maybe a lecture, but make it snappy. There’s a basketball tournament going on in the alley and I’m missing out on all the action. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take much longer for me to realize Teresa means business this time. She’s whipped up a brilliant device, a sure-fire method to shape me up. After laying out a poster board and loading it with black magic-marker ammunition, I read the bold script in horror: I WAS DISRUPTIVE IN CLASS. Both sides. I’m ordered to carry the sign around at recess on the following day as Teresa will watch with satisfaction. Project Humiliation: Accomplished.
One long march around the playground later, I’ve been cured of my know-it-all stink. Little-Me no longer has the confidence to raise her hand in class, but don't worry. Teresa's campaign for Mom of the Year won't stop there. This is merely the beginning. Like when I’ll ask her if Lana Devine can spend the night and Teresa-Darling says, "Lana Devine? Why would she want to spend the night with you? Isn't she popular?"
She's a real gem, this woman.
Within the same vicinity of time, I get my first period. I’m lucky enough to be in the comfort of my own bathroom when I get the surprise, and I know just what to do. I throw out the underwear, shower, roll up toilet paper and go quietly back to my bedroom. There's no way in hell I’m going to tell anyone about this until she can call my loving Momma who lives a quick fifteen minutes away. I'll whisper the news in private after making sure all other phone lines in the house are unplugged and then Momma will come to my rescue with a gift bag full of all the proper remedies; Midol, a Payday candy bar, Teen Magazine, tampons, pads, etc.
After five long days of going out of my way to walk behind everyone, the first crimson wave seems to be over. It comes and goes without doing any apparent damage and I feel well acquainted with the idea of becoming a woman just in time to test the waters of my newfound femininity. I’ve just discovered an unfamiliar voice coming from downstairs. My eldest stepbrother has a handsome friend over and I can't help myself from lingering a bit more than I’m welcome to. He’s a mature man of nineteen, and if anyone can pick up on the presence of a young woman on the rise, it'll be him. He'll be sure to notice! Right? . . . After half an hour of hovering, my brother kicks me out of the room. My chance to spot a twinkle in the handsome friend's eye is gone. But the following day brings hope! Big Bro asks Little-me if I'll join him on a ride to town. So, it's official. I'm one of the adults now. I imagine his handsome friend has asked about me. He must have demanded my presence at an afternoon social function. I imagine a fast food joint full of teenagers. I imagine big hair and real boobs (not the toilet-paper kind), "Holy" jeans and hair gel, loud music and laughter. Now Big Bro will have to accept the fact that his friend is madly in love with me and I'll be part of his crowd. I'll be four years older within one night! And soccer suddenly seemed like such a waste of energy.
I tell Big Bro I'll be ready in five and run to my room for a quick primp. Fifteen minutes later, we're riding in silence with the windows up and the radio turned off. Considering his windows are never rolled up and his speakers are always blaring Guns N' Roses, this isn't quite what I had in mind. Eventually we're in front of the post office. He commands me to wait in the truck, says he'll be right back. Twenty-five minutes after the enthusiastic primping, my bubble gets busted.
After getting back in the truck and getting us back on the road to home, he confesses that this isn't just a quick ride to town. He says his mother has sent him to have a talk with me. I look at him. He's nervous. His usual air of nonchalance is gone. His Elvis-like smirk is replaced with his mother's pseudo-sympathetic/disapproving expression. Both hands grip the wheel and he releases an exaggerated sigh to let me know I've gone and fucked up, yet again.
"Why did my Mom find blood on your underwear?"
Instantly, I’m shrinking behind the confinement of my safety belt and my head begins to spin. Or maybe the truck is spinning out of control. It's hard to be sure. I mumble something along the lines of, "I dunno" and the suspense music in the background starts to play. Can you feel the blood and thunder rising from my veins? How could he? And with such an accusing tone! What's the big deal? I got my period. I'm thirteen. What else do you expect? And what's with all the theatrics? …Here's a guy who barely acknowledges his pre-teen stepsister. Fair enough, perhaps. Considering I didn't meet the guy until he was nearly a grown man, considering the age gap, we aren't especially close. In fact, he intimidates me. So, why would Teresa send him out on a mission to get an explanation out of me when she already knows the truth? Why him? If she just wants to hear me fess up to the obviously inevitable, fine! But…
And then it occurs to me; What if they think its something else? What if they're actually deranged enough to believe I did this to myself? I'd seen a Lifetime movie where a girl had been cutting herself and then hiding the marks with the elastic line of her underwear. Maybe they think I'm one of those depressed chicks that can't handle pre-teen hormones. Or… Or what if they think… Oh for Christ's sake!
The look on his face reveals his perception of me, a result of his mothers influence. He's broken-hearted because he believes I'm a hopeless fuck-up. He believes – they all believe – I come from a woman who is also a hopeless fuck-up, a con-artist, a whore. Therefore, I will never be seen as anything more. I'm not even sure the wretched stepmother can see a child in me, not even back when I wore pigtails and a fudge-pop mustache. Instead, she sees my mother, or if I'm lucky enough to catch her on a good day, she'll see the bastard child of a woman who once slept with her husband. It doesn't matter that I came from a pre-Teresa affair. That's irrelevant. I'm evidence of another woman in her husband's past. I'm guilty by association without mercy, and now, within a quick glance at Big Bro, I can spot that all-too-familiar look. He's disgusted and condescendingly sympathetic. I can't be sure if he'll throw up, scream, or cry. I can see sweat on his brow and his tan skin has gone green. He's clenching his teeth and his nostrils are flexed.
He opts for a good shout, straight from the gut, "Tell me the fucking truth! Did you have sex?!"
Looking back, it's hard to remember if I cried a little or a lot in Big Bro's truck that day. I continued to mumble things like "no" and "I dunno" between sobs until we got back home, at which point, I ran and hid. I sat alone under the stairs and tried to muffle my sobs so that I couldn't be found. I cried long into the night and when I crept out, the house was still and it seemed everyone was sleeping. As I fought my thoughts that night, as well as the urge to toss and turn, too scared to make even the slightest sound, I feared the morning to come. I couldn't prepare myself with a rehearsed conversation inside the privacy of my own imagination. Probable dialogue was inconceivable and my expectations were endless one minute, void the next.
I found myself thinking about Carson Malloy…
She had her first period during class a few weeks back. She was wearing white pants with a bloody stain for all to see and I remember feeling triumphant, having just survived my first personal experience with the red tide. I'm relieved to have escaped public observation, unlike so many of my fellow classmates. I'm proud for not turning out like her, with a big red stain on my new white denim. I figure, 'I'm too smart to let something like that happen to me' and up until yesterday, I'm confident my discretion had gotten me through. I conclude that the worst is over. Yet, one restless night later, I find myself waking up drowsily to the smell of breakfast. The aroma of bacon and biscuits fill the room. For many, this is a pleasant way to rise and shine, but for me, the smell consistently sends me into a panic. I must've slept in! I'll be getting another lecture, and if I'm not at Teresa's precious table by the time the eggs are salted and spooned onto all six plates, I'll be sentenced to an earlier bedtime. Of course, my concerns with a tardy appearance at the breakfast table are quickly replaced by the memory of all that happened the day before. Suddenly, I don't care if I make it to breakfast on time. Fuck breakfast.
Eventually, I trudge my way up the stairs and keep my head down while taking my place at the table. I listen as happy voices fill the room. The middle brother has just gotten an early phone call from his girlfriend, a member of the yearbook staff. Apparently, he's been nominated "Most Comedic" for the Who's Who list. My tardiness has gone unnoticed; perhaps even my existence, at least for the time being. Everyone seems distracted from their suspicions of the alleged sexual escapades by a popularity contest. One of her boys had made Momma proud and nothing will spoil the moment.
School was a sweet escape that day, but returning to hell was unavoidable…
She'll remember her redheaded stepchild. She'll remember the spot of blood on the size too-young-for-sexual-accusations underpants and she'll remember Big Bro's reports from the night before. I'm sure he's informed her of my lies and she'll be waiting for me at the dinner table, cleared of food with nothing more than her pointy elbows and ringing hands between us. Judgments will be made, accusations will fly, and I'll be sentenced unlike never before.
Then again…
Upon returning, I'm surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the hustle and bustle throughout the house isn't all that different from an average night in Teresa's lair. The only reminder of my doom is a bad case of the stomach knots and my inability to smile, even for the sake of faking it as per usual. The house is loud with action as Big Bro jams on his electric guitar and the little one trots about with his cape flying behind him. Mr. Popularity is gabbing with a girl on the phone while watching MTV and Teresa is preoccupied with finding a lost photo album. Aside from being told to lay off the T.V. and go play outside, I seem invisible. That is, until my father stops me just before I make my way to bed. I take a few steps down the stairs before I hear him call my name. He stands up from his throne, where he sits watching CNN and he walks to the railing. He stands over me and asks me if I've ever had sex before. As I begin to shrink again, as I watch him grow six feet taller with intensity, I manage to give him an honest answer – "NO!"
I think I sneered a bit, or maybe I hated them all so much that I maintained a permanent sneer back in those days. I'd like to think I was sneering… though the look on my face probably looked more like that of a pitiful puppy. Either way, I suppose he felt disrespected. His face got all twisted and he actually raised his voice, "If a boy's penis gets close enough, the sperm can jump on your knee and run its way up until it impregnates you! Do you understand?" It was a far cry from the usual melancholy attention I was used to on his behalf.
"Yes sir."
"OK then."
"OK."
I realize at that moment that I'm more jealous of Carson Malloy and her blood-stained white pants than I'll ever be jealous of anyone ever again. If only I had bled through, creating an obvious display for the whole world to observe, this wouldn't be happening. I'd call home and Teresa would be forced to pick me up and let me spend the rest of the day at home. Perhaps she would have been sincerely sympathetic and maybe she would have made an attempt at being nice to me. At school, I'd be called a few names, but it would only last two weeks and then everyone would forget. Two months later, chances are I would forget. If only I had been so lucky. If only! Instead, I’m forever scarred with this memory-in-detail. But with said memory nearly thirteen years behind me now, I can be found in Time Square. I’m easy to spot if you’re a tourist, easy to overlook if you’re a local. My red hair, still stringy, harbors a wad of sticky gum near my chin and the stench coming from my crotch is a hard to dismiss. But don’t mistake this conclusion for a pity-party. It’s actually a very touching outcome. You see, I’m out there sticking it to ‘ol Teresa. As I carry a neon sign high over my head throughout the city crowd, reading I’M LIKE OBAMA - I WANT CHANGE, I smile with pride. Not a hint of humiliation.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
A Comfortable Routine
Tomorrow marks my first full month of life in the Big Apple. I've settled in quite nicely and life is easy.
Three weekdays will be full of fun at the park, children's museums, playdates, etc. The other two days are spent at home where the girls and I are often playing "school" and painting each others nails. At five, the folks return from work and I am relieved of my duties. So I'll go to my room in the back of the apartment, lay down on my twin-sized bed, place my laptop on my belly, and check emails, blogs, etc. By 6:30, the girls will run back to my room to announce dinner. By eight, they're being tucked into bed. Nine o'clock brings the beer. The beer is part of a package deal, you see. I've been very fortunate. The three adults of the house kick back to shoot the shit with a nice cold beer and though I've often tried to contribute to the beer fund, they refuse to accept. If their nanny-ad had said that they were looking for a drinking-buddy as well as a nanny, I think I would have had a lot more competetion!
Sometimes they work from home. Last week, the Misses set up her living room as a studio where she took photos of seven fat and happy babies from seven different ethnicities. When the girls and I returned for dinner, the Misses said to me, "I was thinking; if you'd like to make some extra money and model for me, I'll go ahead and leave the studio set up for the night."
'Moi?' I thought, "Sure!"
After an hour or two of sitting around with "D" and the Misses, drinking beer, shooting said proverbial shit, and taking simple direction in front of a camera, they wrote me a check. The sum was three times more than I expected and with tipsy enthusiasm, I thanked them.
Sometimes, I'll go out on a weeknight. As I've mentioned before, there are often free concerts in the park, or perhaps I'll go to a movie with friends. But not at some cold theater with stinky seats. No ma'am. We go to the old McCarren Park pool, which has been dried out for many years. The huge hole will be filled with people on their blankets, couples cuddling, friends laughing so hard that beer comes out of their noses, and picnics made to share. A screen will be hanging with something like "Wet Hot American Summer" or "Desperately Seeking Susan" being projected and tall speakers surround the pool for all to hear.
On Saturdays, I'll go to the beach with a book or ride my bike on Fifth Ave in Brooklyn to shop through all the vintage stores. Sundays, I do laundry. As I wait, I'll sit in the cafe next door with free wi-fi, like I'm doing right now. I'll update my blog while drinking chai tea and make time for feeling a little homesick. But, I'm happy here in this routine of mine, which is why I said yes to this family's request for me to stay well beyond the two-month live-in agreement. So, it is certain. My break from the books will most definitly be considerable.
Time to switch over the loads!
Three weekdays will be full of fun at the park, children's museums, playdates, etc. The other two days are spent at home where the girls and I are often playing "school" and painting each others nails. At five, the folks return from work and I am relieved of my duties. So I'll go to my room in the back of the apartment, lay down on my twin-sized bed, place my laptop on my belly, and check emails, blogs, etc. By 6:30, the girls will run back to my room to announce dinner. By eight, they're being tucked into bed. Nine o'clock brings the beer. The beer is part of a package deal, you see. I've been very fortunate. The three adults of the house kick back to shoot the shit with a nice cold beer and though I've often tried to contribute to the beer fund, they refuse to accept. If their nanny-ad had said that they were looking for a drinking-buddy as well as a nanny, I think I would have had a lot more competetion!
Sometimes they work from home. Last week, the Misses set up her living room as a studio where she took photos of seven fat and happy babies from seven different ethnicities. When the girls and I returned for dinner, the Misses said to me, "I was thinking; if you'd like to make some extra money and model for me, I'll go ahead and leave the studio set up for the night."
'Moi?' I thought, "Sure!"
After an hour or two of sitting around with "D" and the Misses, drinking beer, shooting said proverbial shit, and taking simple direction in front of a camera, they wrote me a check. The sum was three times more than I expected and with tipsy enthusiasm, I thanked them.
Sometimes, I'll go out on a weeknight. As I've mentioned before, there are often free concerts in the park, or perhaps I'll go to a movie with friends. But not at some cold theater with stinky seats. No ma'am. We go to the old McCarren Park pool, which has been dried out for many years. The huge hole will be filled with people on their blankets, couples cuddling, friends laughing so hard that beer comes out of their noses, and picnics made to share. A screen will be hanging with something like "Wet Hot American Summer" or "Desperately Seeking Susan" being projected and tall speakers surround the pool for all to hear.
On Saturdays, I'll go to the beach with a book or ride my bike on Fifth Ave in Brooklyn to shop through all the vintage stores. Sundays, I do laundry. As I wait, I'll sit in the cafe next door with free wi-fi, like I'm doing right now. I'll update my blog while drinking chai tea and make time for feeling a little homesick. But, I'm happy here in this routine of mine, which is why I said yes to this family's request for me to stay well beyond the two-month live-in agreement. So, it is certain. My break from the books will most definitly be considerable.
Time to switch over the loads!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
New York's Philharmonic Orchestra
I watched the Philharmonic Orchestra "Concert in the Park" last night, for free. I spread a blaket out on soft grass, made a makeshift pillow out of my backpack, and laid back. As I listened, I looked up at this:
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Staying Put
It's already time to change the title of my blog. This can no longer be The Megabondery Diaries: Tales of a Nomadic Nanny. I've decided to stay here with this family until my "break from the books" is done. (That could be a year or two from now.) You see, I've been falling madly in love with these kind folks, and the idea of leaving for... for another... Well, the idea of leaving is flat out inconceivable!
Who knows what the future holds... However, the family in Vancouver (as mentioned before) will not be part of my future. I spoke with them today and felt a strain in connection. As the kind mother told me about her family and their day-to-day lifestyle, I couldn't picture myself fitting in. I had to decline her fair offer. I imagined myself in Vancouver, feeling alone and feeling like an employee again, which is NOT what I'm looking for. Instead, I'm looking to be part of something more. And the current family in NYC has been able to provide me with more than more!
(They hired a babysitter tonight so that we could all three go out together... They're incredible.)
So, I'm gonna stay put, right here. Let's just hope The Misses meant what she said about me sticking around here for a while longer than planned!
Who knows what the future holds... However, the family in Vancouver (as mentioned before) will not be part of my future. I spoke with them today and felt a strain in connection. As the kind mother told me about her family and their day-to-day lifestyle, I couldn't picture myself fitting in. I had to decline her fair offer. I imagined myself in Vancouver, feeling alone and feeling like an employee again, which is NOT what I'm looking for. Instead, I'm looking to be part of something more. And the current family in NYC has been able to provide me with more than more!
(They hired a babysitter tonight so that we could all three go out together... They're incredible.)
So, I'm gonna stay put, right here. Let's just hope The Misses meant what she said about me sticking around here for a while longer than planned!
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Night I Finally Fell For Brooklyn
I was impatient. I was worried this moment would never come. I wondered if I had made a mistake, if I would be miserable for eight long weeks. (Though... I do realize how overdramatic I tend to be.) But tonight was the night I was waiting for! On this lovely Friday night in Brooklyn, I managed to feel at home. I fell in love with eleven or twelve people, at least. I had a movie moment. I smiled for hours and my cheeks began to hurt as a result. I let loose.
However, let me take you back two days, to Wednesday. I was having dinner with my new employer-turned-friend #2 (the father) ... (I'll call him "D" to represent his first-name initial, as well as the obvious - Dad) and the two little darlings. (I stole "darlings" from their mother's blog, where she refers to them as Darling 1 and Darling 2.) The Misses was bearing through her first trip away from home (though she was never very far) and wouldn't be joining us for pizza at joint around the corner. "D" and I caught up on small talk while the girls shoveled pasta down their mouths. (The way these girls eat, you'd think they were starved for weeks.)
"So the girls were great today.... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Thanks a lot for helping out so much while (The Misses) is away... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Oh no worries! They make work seem like a walk in the park... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Megan! Megan! Watch me slurp the worm!"
"Hey, would you be interested in going to Feist's concert tonight in Prospect Park? I think I could get you on the guest list."
Wait... Go back... Are you kidding me?! "YES! I would love that!"
But as small talk continues, my doubts begin to calm my nerves, as I realize the offer sounds too good to be true. For those of you that have never heard of Feist (i.e. Grandma, Mom, etc.) - to be on this woman's guest list would be like being on Carly Simon's guest list. Not that they sound alike, but the influence on underground/alternative listeners is comparable. This woman is amazing! So, as you can imagine, I didn't want to hold my breath. Nevertheless, "D" makes a quick phone call, spells out my name, and then tells me it's all taken care of. I dropped the jaw again and said, "Wow, thanks!"
...Perhaps I even let a small squeal sneak out...
Once we got back to the house, I grabbed my bike, said my good-nights to "D" and the girls, and flew like the wind towards Prospect Park. I arrived early and stood in line at "Will-Call". I decided it would be best to choose my words wisely once getting to the front. I practiced a very humble, sweet way to ask for my freebie, for my once-in-a-lifetime guest pass. Once I reached the front where volunteers sat behind fold-out tables, I was well rehearsed.
"Hi, um... I think I might maybe be on the Arts and Crafts guest list...? It would be under McLeod... um, strange spelling... M-C-L-E-O-D... Sounds like Mc-LEE-OD."
I watched nervously as she thumbed through a shoebox full of envelopes, which I assumed were all filled with tickets.
"Um, sorry... I actually shouldn't have a ticket... um, I think my name would have been added to the list within an hour... um, the guest list?"
"Who's guest list?"
"Arts and Crafts...?"
"Who is Arts and Crafts?"
"Oh, sorry, it's Feist's record label. I was told to ask for the label list."
"Well there isn't a list for Arts and Crafts, and there isn't even a list for Feist. I'm sorry, you'll have to call your connections. NEXT!"
Now, I could go on and on, telling you about how pathetic I looked over the next 45 minutes as I stood near these fold-out tables, waiting for a phone call from "D", but I'm sure you can imagine. After nearly an hour of hoping so hard that I nearly drenched my cell phone with sweat from the palms of my hands, I decided it was time to give up. "D" meant well... As did his connections... In fact, I'll be receiving a gift-package from the Arts and Crafts record label, including all recent CD releases, because the lady behind the curtain felt so bad for her mix-up. (Too many middle-men.) No problem. I simply went on about my previous plans. I took a friend's advice to attend a BYOB-type function called "Lecture Series". Good times were had and I met nice people.
But man... I was THIS close to having my first great night in New York! I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.
HOWEVER! I joined an old friend from San Antonio tonight at a free event (also in Prospect Park). The super-hip, super-sexy, experimental, electronica band, Brazilian Girls put on an excellent show. But that's not what made my heart grow fond of my new home. It was actually everything that happened as I sat on my blanket, in the grass, sipping on cold beer, before the show began.
I made small-talk with a small group of early-30-something fun-lovers sitting behind me, but as I waited for the old friend from home to show, I grew weary and wondered if I might be sitting on that blanket alone all night. I had time to finish a full beer before the first opening band went on, and went up for another. A tall bearded man, passing out wristbands in exchange for a one-time ID check, gave me a warm smile. For a moment, I felt visible, which in NYC, is nice, no matter who it is that notices you. I went back to my blanket with the fresh beer in hand and made myself comfortable with a book. I was hoping to kill time, but the sun was beginning to disappear and I had to put the book away after a few pages. My eyes looked around at the people filling the park. Suddenly, eye-contact! The man with the wristbands was looking right at me. I kept up with the eye-contact, as I thought he must be looking at something just over my shoulder. I was impressed with his ability to maintain distant eye-contact, with a complete stranger, for as long as it went on. (Seemed to be a long time!) I quickly reopened my book and hid behind its pages. But he knew I couldn't be reading... and I knew he knew I couldn't be reading... and I knew he knew I was just being... shy? Yep. Me - shy? I guess that's the effect this city has had on me so far. Anyway, I put the book down and looked up again. He was busy slapping wristbands on consumers and the moment was gone. I suppose I was relieved... but flattered, nonetheless. A handsome stranger noticed little 'ol me and I couldn't help but smile to myself as a result.
As I watched children run around the grass, waving glow-sticks and squirting each other with water bottles, I decided to send The Misses a text message. I invited them out to the show. I was actually missing their company, despite the fact that the girls are my "job" and the folks, my employers. But I don't relate these people with work. So, they said they'd come and I got excited. I stretched out my blanket to make room for more and watched the crowd for familiar faces. The old friend showed up, and shortly after, my nanny-family popped out of the crowd and we all settled in for the second opener. Little Darling entertained the group of fun-lovers behind me while Big Darling and I ate red beans and rice. The Misses, "D", my old friend from home, and I shot the proverbial shit with beers to chase the work-week away.
This alone, was perfect. I was happy with my surroundings, with a social situation outside of the nanny-home (albeit only slightly outside the nanny-home...) and I felt elated to be there.
The nanny-family only stayed a short while due to Little Darling's restlessness, and the old friend had to run home, but I joined the folks behind me for a game of Apples to Apples (best card game for large groups - highly recommended). Then, another stranger, like myself, joined the group, and another, and another. At the end of the game, we had twelve people - some strangers, some friends - who all came together to share gut-wrenching laughter before turning attention to the main attraction.
The show was coming to an end and I was getting tired. I packed up my things, shook several hands, and said my goodbyes. It was time for bed! But I was happy...
As I headed straight to the front of a long line (a very long line) for the port-a-potties, just to reach my bike on the other side, I decided to "pull a funny". Instead of passing the young man at the front of the line and continuing on to the fence where my bike was locked up, I stopped and turned my back to him. I stood there, hiding the insistent smile on my face, for what seemed like too long (15 seconds). Then, he politely tapped my shoulder and asked, "Um, are you serious?" I turned around, released a laugh, and said, "No." I then went on to my bike and began to deactivate it's highly effective security system (1 U-Lock: $38 and 1 long chain: $14).
This is where I got my movie moment...
Sort of...
"Um, excuse me?"
I looked up to find the young man I played the joke on was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He had obviously just lost his place at the front of the line and I thought, 'Uh oh... I must've really ticked him off!'
"That was really cute. I like your sense of humor, and I just thought I'd come and let you know..."
Awwwwwwwwww!!!!!!
He walked away in a rush.
I thought I'd be anonymous and invisible in this city for quite some time, but I somehow got noticed twice in one night by two fairly handsome, young men, as well as getting noticed by those eleven amazing people who played Apples to Apples! Now - I realize it may be taboo to actually admit how much you enjoy being noticed - or maybe not, on second thought - but it felt damn good. Maybe it sounds silly, but I needed that. I needed good old fashioned social interaction of the warm-hearted and personal kind.
On the short bike ride home, I felt like I was flying.
However, let me take you back two days, to Wednesday. I was having dinner with my new employer-turned-friend #2 (the father) ... (I'll call him "D" to represent his first-name initial, as well as the obvious - Dad) and the two little darlings. (I stole "darlings" from their mother's blog, where she refers to them as Darling 1 and Darling 2.) The Misses was bearing through her first trip away from home (though she was never very far) and wouldn't be joining us for pizza at joint around the corner. "D" and I caught up on small talk while the girls shoveled pasta down their mouths. (The way these girls eat, you'd think they were starved for weeks.)
"So the girls were great today.... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Thanks a lot for helping out so much while (The Misses) is away... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Oh no worries! They make work seem like a walk in the park... yadda yadda yadda..."
"Megan! Megan! Watch me slurp the worm!"
"Hey, would you be interested in going to Feist's concert tonight in Prospect Park? I think I could get you on the guest list."
Wait... Go back... Are you kidding me?! "YES! I would love that!"
But as small talk continues, my doubts begin to calm my nerves, as I realize the offer sounds too good to be true. For those of you that have never heard of Feist (i.e. Grandma, Mom, etc.) - to be on this woman's guest list would be like being on Carly Simon's guest list. Not that they sound alike, but the influence on underground/alternative listeners is comparable. This woman is amazing! So, as you can imagine, I didn't want to hold my breath. Nevertheless, "D" makes a quick phone call, spells out my name, and then tells me it's all taken care of. I dropped the jaw again and said, "Wow, thanks!"
...Perhaps I even let a small squeal sneak out...
Once we got back to the house, I grabbed my bike, said my good-nights to "D" and the girls, and flew like the wind towards Prospect Park. I arrived early and stood in line at "Will-Call". I decided it would be best to choose my words wisely once getting to the front. I practiced a very humble, sweet way to ask for my freebie, for my once-in-a-lifetime guest pass. Once I reached the front where volunteers sat behind fold-out tables, I was well rehearsed.
"Hi, um... I think I might maybe be on the Arts and Crafts guest list...? It would be under McLeod... um, strange spelling... M-C-L-E-O-D... Sounds like Mc-LEE-OD."
I watched nervously as she thumbed through a shoebox full of envelopes, which I assumed were all filled with tickets.
"Um, sorry... I actually shouldn't have a ticket... um, I think my name would have been added to the list within an hour... um, the guest list?"
"Who's guest list?"
"Arts and Crafts...?"
"Who is Arts and Crafts?"
"Oh, sorry, it's Feist's record label. I was told to ask for the label list."
"Well there isn't a list for Arts and Crafts, and there isn't even a list for Feist. I'm sorry, you'll have to call your connections. NEXT!"
Now, I could go on and on, telling you about how pathetic I looked over the next 45 minutes as I stood near these fold-out tables, waiting for a phone call from "D", but I'm sure you can imagine. After nearly an hour of hoping so hard that I nearly drenched my cell phone with sweat from the palms of my hands, I decided it was time to give up. "D" meant well... As did his connections... In fact, I'll be receiving a gift-package from the Arts and Crafts record label, including all recent CD releases, because the lady behind the curtain felt so bad for her mix-up. (Too many middle-men.) No problem. I simply went on about my previous plans. I took a friend's advice to attend a BYOB-type function called "Lecture Series". Good times were had and I met nice people.
But man... I was THIS close to having my first great night in New York! I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.
HOWEVER! I joined an old friend from San Antonio tonight at a free event (also in Prospect Park). The super-hip, super-sexy, experimental, electronica band, Brazilian Girls put on an excellent show. But that's not what made my heart grow fond of my new home. It was actually everything that happened as I sat on my blanket, in the grass, sipping on cold beer, before the show began.
I made small-talk with a small group of early-30-something fun-lovers sitting behind me, but as I waited for the old friend from home to show, I grew weary and wondered if I might be sitting on that blanket alone all night. I had time to finish a full beer before the first opening band went on, and went up for another. A tall bearded man, passing out wristbands in exchange for a one-time ID check, gave me a warm smile. For a moment, I felt visible, which in NYC, is nice, no matter who it is that notices you. I went back to my blanket with the fresh beer in hand and made myself comfortable with a book. I was hoping to kill time, but the sun was beginning to disappear and I had to put the book away after a few pages. My eyes looked around at the people filling the park. Suddenly, eye-contact! The man with the wristbands was looking right at me. I kept up with the eye-contact, as I thought he must be looking at something just over my shoulder. I was impressed with his ability to maintain distant eye-contact, with a complete stranger, for as long as it went on. (Seemed to be a long time!) I quickly reopened my book and hid behind its pages. But he knew I couldn't be reading... and I knew he knew I couldn't be reading... and I knew he knew I was just being... shy? Yep. Me - shy? I guess that's the effect this city has had on me so far. Anyway, I put the book down and looked up again. He was busy slapping wristbands on consumers and the moment was gone. I suppose I was relieved... but flattered, nonetheless. A handsome stranger noticed little 'ol me and I couldn't help but smile to myself as a result.
As I watched children run around the grass, waving glow-sticks and squirting each other with water bottles, I decided to send The Misses a text message. I invited them out to the show. I was actually missing their company, despite the fact that the girls are my "job" and the folks, my employers. But I don't relate these people with work. So, they said they'd come and I got excited. I stretched out my blanket to make room for more and watched the crowd for familiar faces. The old friend showed up, and shortly after, my nanny-family popped out of the crowd and we all settled in for the second opener. Little Darling entertained the group of fun-lovers behind me while Big Darling and I ate red beans and rice. The Misses, "D", my old friend from home, and I shot the proverbial shit with beers to chase the work-week away.
This alone, was perfect. I was happy with my surroundings, with a social situation outside of the nanny-home (albeit only slightly outside the nanny-home...) and I felt elated to be there.
The nanny-family only stayed a short while due to Little Darling's restlessness, and the old friend had to run home, but I joined the folks behind me for a game of Apples to Apples (best card game for large groups - highly recommended). Then, another stranger, like myself, joined the group, and another, and another. At the end of the game, we had twelve people - some strangers, some friends - who all came together to share gut-wrenching laughter before turning attention to the main attraction.
The show was coming to an end and I was getting tired. I packed up my things, shook several hands, and said my goodbyes. It was time for bed! But I was happy...
As I headed straight to the front of a long line (a very long line) for the port-a-potties, just to reach my bike on the other side, I decided to "pull a funny". Instead of passing the young man at the front of the line and continuing on to the fence where my bike was locked up, I stopped and turned my back to him. I stood there, hiding the insistent smile on my face, for what seemed like too long (15 seconds). Then, he politely tapped my shoulder and asked, "Um, are you serious?" I turned around, released a laugh, and said, "No." I then went on to my bike and began to deactivate it's highly effective security system (1 U-Lock: $38 and 1 long chain: $14).
This is where I got my movie moment...
Sort of...
"Um, excuse me?"
I looked up to find the young man I played the joke on was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He had obviously just lost his place at the front of the line and I thought, 'Uh oh... I must've really ticked him off!'
"That was really cute. I like your sense of humor, and I just thought I'd come and let you know..."
Awwwwwwwwww!!!!!!
He walked away in a rush.
I thought I'd be anonymous and invisible in this city for quite some time, but I somehow got noticed twice in one night by two fairly handsome, young men, as well as getting noticed by those eleven amazing people who played Apples to Apples! Now - I realize it may be taboo to actually admit how much you enjoy being noticed - or maybe not, on second thought - but it felt damn good. Maybe it sounds silly, but I needed that. I needed good old fashioned social interaction of the warm-hearted and personal kind.
On the short bike ride home, I felt like I was flying.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Meh...
I've gone out for drinks with my new employer-turned-friend, I've gone to an over-populated rooftop party where I watched the world's largest fireworks display, I've gone shopping in places a poor girl should never shop, I've discovered Hasidic Jews aren't friendly - or maybe they want to be, but aren't allowed to be...? Anyway, I've had a rich week in NY, full of encounters and events, yet I can only conjure up one word to express my thoughts and opinions - (quick shrug) 'Meh...' But let me remain concrete about one thing; I adore this family and hate the thought of leaving for a new one. However, I received that call from Canada, and the match looks promising. It seems we're excited about each other. I'll know by the 15th!
Now. Back to that party. I want to elaborate a bit. You see, the host's girlfriend was an old friend from back home. I couldn't wait to see her, along with the rooftop, the bands, the DJ, the fireworks, the food! Oh, it sounded so... so... so New York City! And it was, I can assure you, but I let something so insignificant spoil my mood, which therefore spoiled my night. This girl. Ugh!
My dear, old friend introduced me to said girl minutes after my arrival. Based on first impressions, she was friendly, and quite possibly the life of the party. I found out we were both nannies and both from Texas. I also found out we had met before, back home. (Small world.) But these commonalities became a hazard when she took it as an opening to say some terrible things about someone very close to me, someone she's never even met. The girl realized the tension she created and made jokes about how she loves to say inappropriate things. She didn't bother apologizing. Instead, she made it worse by going further.
Like I said above, this minor encounter was really insignificant. This girl was insignificant. But for some reason, I let her get me down. I left almost immediately after the fireworks went off, despite the fact that it was early and the party would be going on for hours longer. I went as far as to play melancholy music on my mp3 player while walking home. Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! It's so unlike me. Here I am in NYC at my first rooftop party, there are hundreds of interesting people around, good music is pouring out of the speakers, fresh food covers the tables, and the view alone is enough to keep anyone in their right-mind there, at least for a while... Yet, I leave it all because of one silly girl? It was as if that one encounter made everything feel dirty. I just couldn't clean up after the mess she made.
I'm trying to like this place. I really am. But it's just... it's just... It's just 'Meh...'
Now. Back to that party. I want to elaborate a bit. You see, the host's girlfriend was an old friend from back home. I couldn't wait to see her, along with the rooftop, the bands, the DJ, the fireworks, the food! Oh, it sounded so... so... so New York City! And it was, I can assure you, but I let something so insignificant spoil my mood, which therefore spoiled my night. This girl. Ugh!
My dear, old friend introduced me to said girl minutes after my arrival. Based on first impressions, she was friendly, and quite possibly the life of the party. I found out we were both nannies and both from Texas. I also found out we had met before, back home. (Small world.) But these commonalities became a hazard when she took it as an opening to say some terrible things about someone very close to me, someone she's never even met. The girl realized the tension she created and made jokes about how she loves to say inappropriate things. She didn't bother apologizing. Instead, she made it worse by going further.
Like I said above, this minor encounter was really insignificant. This girl was insignificant. But for some reason, I let her get me down. I left almost immediately after the fireworks went off, despite the fact that it was early and the party would be going on for hours longer. I went as far as to play melancholy music on my mp3 player while walking home. Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! It's so unlike me. Here I am in NYC at my first rooftop party, there are hundreds of interesting people around, good music is pouring out of the speakers, fresh food covers the tables, and the view alone is enough to keep anyone in their right-mind there, at least for a while... Yet, I leave it all because of one silly girl? It was as if that one encounter made everything feel dirty. I just couldn't clean up after the mess she made.
I'm trying to like this place. I really am. But it's just... it's just... It's just 'Meh...'
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Williamsburg
The girls and I ventured off to the park yesterday. We had plans to meet with their best friends, two little Korean sisters. JJ Byrne Park is only a few short blocks away, so when the girls asked if they could bring their bikes along, it seemed reasonable to say yes. I'd seen their parents allow this, as long as the girls walked the bicycles, instead of riding them. Once inside the safe perimeters of the park, the girls would be allowed to ride. Perfect logic.
Before their mother left for work, she suggested I take the stroller. The youngest was recovering from a small fever from the day before and it made sense to have a stroller on hand in case of fatigue. I also packed a large bag full of snacks, water bottles, and towels. (The park comes equipped with an incredible sprinkler device made just for kids.)
Now with two bicycles, one large bag, one purse, one stroller, and two hands to hold, I was ready to go! (For those of you with children and/or nanny experience, you can already see what a terrible mistake I've just made... And now that the girls are tickled pink with the promise of their beloved bicycle-cargo, I worry that a change of plans might cause our first falling-out. The first falling-out with a child is always the hardest...)
While attempting to disguise the hesitation in my voice, I said, "How about leaving the bikes behind today? You'll be too busy playing with your friends to ride bikes."
Good grief! You'd like to think I just announced the end of the world! So, that was that. Going without bikes would be out of the question, as was leaving the stroller behind. However, I managed to get by at the end of the day, and I couldn't help but burn with pride. My innovative techniques were a success! I used one shoulder to drape the front wheel of the smaller bike and the handle bars of the stroller sufficiently hung the bags. One hand steered the stroller with the youngest safely snuggled in and the other hand held on to the other child as we crossed the streets. Now, I know what most of you may be thinking... 'Been there, done that!' Right? But just this once, I felt the need to toot my own horn. My first overload in the city went better than I could have hoped it would! And after all was said and done, my second day on duty ended with a big boost to the ego, as well as the heart. The girls seemed quite happy with me and they couldn't wait to tell Mom and Dad how "awesome" I was. This one simple word and their sweet smiles made the whole struggle worth while.
Needless to say, I was thoroughly pooped-out by the time our day came to an end, which may explain the disappointment and frustration that came over me later on in the evening. You see, I had plans to embark on my first solo-exploration of Brooklyn. The employers kindly bought an old roadbike for me to use and I thought I'd break it in and go for a cruise. I set out for Williamsburg, a "neighborhood" in Brooklyn. (The neighborhoods within these boroughs are big enough to be their own small town!) I found the streets easy to handle and every encounter I made along the way was friendly. I paid $81.00 for my 1-month metro pass (despite my thinking they were free!) and then I hopped on the subway. I dared to people-watch as folks went about their typical commutes home from work. Everyone had a style. Even those I assume were going for the bag-lady look wore name brands. Some spent an exceptional amount of time on their hair while others seemed to be more concerned with accessories. Either way, everyone had a conscious "look" they were aiming for and most were succeeding, in my humble opinion. Everyone had books to pass the time, which made them look more like locals. After making eye-contact with a young girl in a feathered trilby hat and tall boots, I realized my wandering eyes made me the obvious tourist.
An old friend of mine from San Antonio wanted to show me his new home and grab a bite to eat at a trendy Moroccan-themed joint called Black Betty. The drinks were too expensive for me to even consider, the service was limited, and the food was bland! I've had much better falafels in San Antonio... But just before I could remind myself that it was too early to pass judgment on NY, my friend introduced me to a couple from his building. The young lovers took it upon themselves to tell me just how out of my league I was. At first sight, I was sized up. Just after my first words were spoken, they exchanged glances. It was obvious they thought I was hysterical. Unfortunately, their laughter did not include me. It remained between them. For a moment, I thought the girl might want to make friends as she began telling me about her favorite hotspots. But as she went into detail, mouthing off the lingo she knew I didn't know and spitting out prices she knew I couldn't afford, I realized I was nothing more than entertainment. So, I indulged her!
"Sounds great!" I said, "Thanks for the tips, but there's no way I could afford the cover to get in those places, let alone the drinks... I make $150 bucks a week as a live-in nanny."
I watched as she raised her brows and dropped her jaw in shock.
"But you're job-hunting, right?" she asked.
"No, I've fallen head over heals in love with this family. I think I'll stay put for the remainder of my time in New York."
"Well if you thought you'd be able to afford a life on that kind of income, you're mistaken. I can hook you up with a temp agency if you like. A friend of mine works with them and she says they never work with struggling families. They're all loaded, so I'm sure you'd be better off! Here sweetie, let me get you the number. Do you have a cell phone?"
"Oh, no thanks. I'm sure I'll be fine. I can always pack a paper-bag lunch if I go out for the day, instead of hitting the restaurants. And of course I won't be taking taxi cabs anywhere. I'm ok on the subway. I've also heard there are tons of free things to do in the city every summer. But thanks anyway!"
I gave the spoiled brat a wink, just to make sure she knew I was being condescending. Then again, I doubt she caught on.
On my ride home, I looked around the city and compared it to the only other two cities I've lived in during my adult years; San Antonio, of course, and albeit a short stay, Denver. I began to wonder if NYC would ever compare to Denver, and I even realized just how much I appreciate the low-standards in SA. So I immediately checked my email once getting back home, hoping someone from the Pacific NW had answered my Craigslist ad.
"NOMADIC NANNY SEEKING TEMP LIVE-IN POSITION STARTING SEPTEMBER" - The details inside the ad were honest and I included links to my nanny-page, as well as this blog.
My inbox was empty...
But this morning, I woke to find my dreams of visiting the Redwoods could very well come true!
Of course I should wait to post this blog until I've spoken with the family in Surrey, Canada, but I'm too excited! I thought my chances of finding host-families for this nomadic notion of mine would be slim-to-none. But there's hope after all!
I'm knocking on wood...
This simple girl needs a simple world. Just one problem... How the hell am I going to deal with getting attatched to a new family every two to four months, just to leave them at the end? Will these little ladies still think me "awesome" when I say goodbye? It almost feels treacherous to even think about leaving now, and I'm only on day five. I've got two more months of bonding ahead of me, at least!
Contemplation overload! My brain... is shutting... down.
Before their mother left for work, she suggested I take the stroller. The youngest was recovering from a small fever from the day before and it made sense to have a stroller on hand in case of fatigue. I also packed a large bag full of snacks, water bottles, and towels. (The park comes equipped with an incredible sprinkler device made just for kids.)
Now with two bicycles, one large bag, one purse, one stroller, and two hands to hold, I was ready to go! (For those of you with children and/or nanny experience, you can already see what a terrible mistake I've just made... And now that the girls are tickled pink with the promise of their beloved bicycle-cargo, I worry that a change of plans might cause our first falling-out. The first falling-out with a child is always the hardest...)
While attempting to disguise the hesitation in my voice, I said, "How about leaving the bikes behind today? You'll be too busy playing with your friends to ride bikes."
Good grief! You'd like to think I just announced the end of the world! So, that was that. Going without bikes would be out of the question, as was leaving the stroller behind. However, I managed to get by at the end of the day, and I couldn't help but burn with pride. My innovative techniques were a success! I used one shoulder to drape the front wheel of the smaller bike and the handle bars of the stroller sufficiently hung the bags. One hand steered the stroller with the youngest safely snuggled in and the other hand held on to the other child as we crossed the streets. Now, I know what most of you may be thinking... 'Been there, done that!' Right? But just this once, I felt the need to toot my own horn. My first overload in the city went better than I could have hoped it would! And after all was said and done, my second day on duty ended with a big boost to the ego, as well as the heart. The girls seemed quite happy with me and they couldn't wait to tell Mom and Dad how "awesome" I was. This one simple word and their sweet smiles made the whole struggle worth while.
Needless to say, I was thoroughly pooped-out by the time our day came to an end, which may explain the disappointment and frustration that came over me later on in the evening. You see, I had plans to embark on my first solo-exploration of Brooklyn. The employers kindly bought an old roadbike for me to use and I thought I'd break it in and go for a cruise. I set out for Williamsburg, a "neighborhood" in Brooklyn. (The neighborhoods within these boroughs are big enough to be their own small town!) I found the streets easy to handle and every encounter I made along the way was friendly. I paid $81.00 for my 1-month metro pass (despite my thinking they were free!) and then I hopped on the subway. I dared to people-watch as folks went about their typical commutes home from work. Everyone had a style. Even those I assume were going for the bag-lady look wore name brands. Some spent an exceptional amount of time on their hair while others seemed to be more concerned with accessories. Either way, everyone had a conscious "look" they were aiming for and most were succeeding, in my humble opinion. Everyone had books to pass the time, which made them look more like locals. After making eye-contact with a young girl in a feathered trilby hat and tall boots, I realized my wandering eyes made me the obvious tourist.
An old friend of mine from San Antonio wanted to show me his new home and grab a bite to eat at a trendy Moroccan-themed joint called Black Betty. The drinks were too expensive for me to even consider, the service was limited, and the food was bland! I've had much better falafels in San Antonio... But just before I could remind myself that it was too early to pass judgment on NY, my friend introduced me to a couple from his building. The young lovers took it upon themselves to tell me just how out of my league I was. At first sight, I was sized up. Just after my first words were spoken, they exchanged glances. It was obvious they thought I was hysterical. Unfortunately, their laughter did not include me. It remained between them. For a moment, I thought the girl might want to make friends as she began telling me about her favorite hotspots. But as she went into detail, mouthing off the lingo she knew I didn't know and spitting out prices she knew I couldn't afford, I realized I was nothing more than entertainment. So, I indulged her!
"Sounds great!" I said, "Thanks for the tips, but there's no way I could afford the cover to get in those places, let alone the drinks... I make $150 bucks a week as a live-in nanny."
I watched as she raised her brows and dropped her jaw in shock.
"But you're job-hunting, right?" she asked.
"No, I've fallen head over heals in love with this family. I think I'll stay put for the remainder of my time in New York."
"Well if you thought you'd be able to afford a life on that kind of income, you're mistaken. I can hook you up with a temp agency if you like. A friend of mine works with them and she says they never work with struggling families. They're all loaded, so I'm sure you'd be better off! Here sweetie, let me get you the number. Do you have a cell phone?"
"Oh, no thanks. I'm sure I'll be fine. I can always pack a paper-bag lunch if I go out for the day, instead of hitting the restaurants. And of course I won't be taking taxi cabs anywhere. I'm ok on the subway. I've also heard there are tons of free things to do in the city every summer. But thanks anyway!"
I gave the spoiled brat a wink, just to make sure she knew I was being condescending. Then again, I doubt she caught on.
On my ride home, I looked around the city and compared it to the only other two cities I've lived in during my adult years; San Antonio, of course, and albeit a short stay, Denver. I began to wonder if NYC would ever compare to Denver, and I even realized just how much I appreciate the low-standards in SA. So I immediately checked my email once getting back home, hoping someone from the Pacific NW had answered my Craigslist ad.
"NOMADIC NANNY SEEKING TEMP LIVE-IN POSITION STARTING SEPTEMBER" - The details inside the ad were honest and I included links to my nanny-page, as well as this blog.
My inbox was empty...
But this morning, I woke to find my dreams of visiting the Redwoods could very well come true!
Hi Megan, Don't know if anyone has snapped you up yet or
not but, if you are still in the market and want to see the west coast, we have
a great place in Surrey with a sweetheart of a little girl... We'd welcome a
chat w/ you to see if the want/need thing works out but, we fluked upon your
site and, I am sure it must be serendipity. I have given you my office
number so, give a call when you have a chance and we can take it from there.
Cheers!
I'm knocking on wood...
This simple girl needs a simple world. Just one problem... How the hell am I going to deal with getting attatched to a new family every two to four months, just to leave them at the end? Will these little ladies still think me "awesome" when I say goodbye? It almost feels treacherous to even think about leaving now, and I'm only on day five. I've got two more months of bonding ahead of me, at least!
Contemplation overload! My brain... is shutting... down.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Day One
With the airlines going through such a difficult time in our declining economy, I understand the rise in airfare, the lack of those beloved free meals onboard, the limitations on luggage weight and the fees they charge for extra bags. It's understandable and I don't see any reason to complain - or do I? You see, when I showed up to check in, I planned to check one large suitcase. Unfortunately, it weighed 20 pounds too much. In order for them to allow such a heavy sack of shit on board the plane, they required $80.00. 'OK... Fair enough...' I thought.
"Would the same fee apply if I were to check a second bag instead? If each bag was under 50 pounds?" I asked.
The clerk shook his head and informed me a second bag would only cost $25, as long as both bags weighed less than 50 pounds. Basically, I could check 2 bags at 100 pounds total for only $25, but one bag at 70 pounds would cost me $80.
'Uhhh...?'
Well now, let me try to think about this. There has to be some logic here... OK, I get it. I'm paying extra for the muscle, for the short walk a man must take from cart to plane to carousel while lifting my ridiculously heavy excess baggage. But $55 dollars just for that? I'm betting those guys make mad cash-flow! Or atleast that's the impression I had before doing a little research. According to WikiAnswers.com, they pay is crap: "In the USA an average hourly wage for that kind of work is between $8 and $10 an hour. This is a basic laboring job that doesn't require much intelligence or education. There is little chance of promotion, and you have to work outside in all kinds of bad weather, and also work different shifts to cover all the arrival and departure times of the planes."
I couldn't find specifics for Delta Airlines (the airline I dealt with in particular) but I doubt it gets any better. Poor guys... They're getting cheated with yet another reason to damn the man. But on the bright side, I managed to avoid the $80.00 fee, and considering I made this move with nothing more than $90.00 in my pocket, I was relieved.
Now, on to a more positive topic of blogersation - I LOVE BROOKLYN! My new nanny-family couldn't be more accomodating. While having a delicious dinner at Two Boots (the family-fav), I was welcomed with such enthusiasm! The two girls sat impatiently with their father while their mother and I made our way to the table. I was immediately greeted me with big smiles and bright eyes. There was a hand-made card and a hand-crafted necklace that spelled out my name with wooden beads waiting at my seat. The girls had a hard time taking turns with my attention. They had so much to tell me! I couldn't have felt more relaxed.
After dinner, we walked 3 blocks home. My eyes wandered about, soaking it all in; the tall trees arching over the street, the sandstone buildings, the friendly smiles that passed us by. Park Slope. My new home. I had to hold back the urge to skip and click my heels. The girls couldn't wait to give me a tour of the house. After three flights of steep, creaky steps in a beautiful, old, sandstone building, a colorful banner caught my eye. "Welcome to New York!" The girls took my hands and pulled me inside. My new home smelled of cherrywood and coconut. Family photographs taken by Mom hung proud on the walls above the art-deco furniture. Guitar cases lines the walls. Lamps lit the space with a mellow glow. It was enchanting.
My room was outfitted with a new bed and nightstand, a fan, and a long window stretching from ceiling to floor. A fire-escape hung just outside and a fresh plant sat on the window sill. It was perfect. It is perfect. Now that the girls have gone to sleep, I'm lounging in my new digs with the window blowing in a cool breeze.
I'm so happy I did this.
"Would the same fee apply if I were to check a second bag instead? If each bag was under 50 pounds?" I asked.
The clerk shook his head and informed me a second bag would only cost $25, as long as both bags weighed less than 50 pounds. Basically, I could check 2 bags at 100 pounds total for only $25, but one bag at 70 pounds would cost me $80.
'Uhhh...?'
Well now, let me try to think about this. There has to be some logic here... OK, I get it. I'm paying extra for the muscle, for the short walk a man must take from cart to plane to carousel while lifting my ridiculously heavy excess baggage. But $55 dollars just for that? I'm betting those guys make mad cash-flow! Or atleast that's the impression I had before doing a little research. According to WikiAnswers.com, they pay is crap: "In the USA an average hourly wage for that kind of work is between $8 and $10 an hour. This is a basic laboring job that doesn't require much intelligence or education. There is little chance of promotion, and you have to work outside in all kinds of bad weather, and also work different shifts to cover all the arrival and departure times of the planes."
I couldn't find specifics for Delta Airlines (the airline I dealt with in particular) but I doubt it gets any better. Poor guys... They're getting cheated with yet another reason to damn the man. But on the bright side, I managed to avoid the $80.00 fee, and considering I made this move with nothing more than $90.00 in my pocket, I was relieved.
Now, on to a more positive topic of blogersation - I LOVE BROOKLYN! My new nanny-family couldn't be more accomodating. While having a delicious dinner at Two Boots (the family-fav), I was welcomed with such enthusiasm! The two girls sat impatiently with their father while their mother and I made our way to the table. I was immediately greeted me with big smiles and bright eyes. There was a hand-made card and a hand-crafted necklace that spelled out my name with wooden beads waiting at my seat. The girls had a hard time taking turns with my attention. They had so much to tell me! I couldn't have felt more relaxed.
After dinner, we walked 3 blocks home. My eyes wandered about, soaking it all in; the tall trees arching over the street, the sandstone buildings, the friendly smiles that passed us by. Park Slope. My new home. I had to hold back the urge to skip and click my heels. The girls couldn't wait to give me a tour of the house. After three flights of steep, creaky steps in a beautiful, old, sandstone building, a colorful banner caught my eye. "Welcome to New York!" The girls took my hands and pulled me inside. My new home smelled of cherrywood and coconut. Family photographs taken by Mom hung proud on the walls above the art-deco furniture. Guitar cases lines the walls. Lamps lit the space with a mellow glow. It was enchanting.
My room was outfitted with a new bed and nightstand, a fan, and a long window stretching from ceiling to floor. A fire-escape hung just outside and a fresh plant sat on the window sill. It was perfect. It is perfect. Now that the girls have gone to sleep, I'm lounging in my new digs with the window blowing in a cool breeze.
I'm so happy I did this.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Who? What? When? Where? Why?
Wanderlust infects the best of us, creeping its way into our minds and contaminating our brains with dreams of distant places. Wanderlust will remain incurable only when an individual is full of bullshit and excuses (for example: poverty, debt, education, etc...) - BUT - I can assure you a loophole does exist! Just as I was starting to think this disease of desperation was doing me in for good, I realized there was a way. And now, my friends, this wanderlust I thought to be a miserable infection of the heart and mind has now become a welcome part of who I am.
So how exactly does a poor, indebted, college student like me find an opportunity to travel? There are plenty of them, really... but I've chosen to take advantage of my childcare experience! My five-year history as a nanny has proven to come in handy as an avenue to distant cities, including paid travel expenses and weekly stipends! And with Craigslist.org at hand, my search for a live-in position beyond the borders of Texas was an easy endeavor.
I fly out to my new home, Park Slope, Brooklyn, in four days, seven hours, and forty minutes! I'll pack lightly to better leave San Antonio behind and I'll make no promises to return anytime soon. I'll hug my beloved mother and miss my incredible friends, but I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other until I find myself watching my half-finished college education disappear in the horizon from my coach window seat.
It seems New York City will make a perfectly sufficient place to start my journey. I'll be living with a young family of four for two months, making just enough to scrape by. While I'm there, I expect to spend my first month exploring and soaking it all in, but once I feel I've taken in enough pavement and noise, I'll start job-hunting online again. I'll begin making plans for Portland, Providence, Mexico City, Vancouver, perhaps Dublin! 'Tis a beautiful thought, eh? But we both know there is a small flaw to my almost-perfect plan - i.e., where will I find another family looking for a temporary live-in nanny? But let's not pop my bubble just yet! It's still new and shiny, and I'd like it to remain inflated for as long as possible. Who knows? Maybe I'll spend a year or two in one place at a time. I guess that all depends on two things: the seat of my pants and the wind...
So how exactly does a poor, indebted, college student like me find an opportunity to travel? There are plenty of them, really... but I've chosen to take advantage of my childcare experience! My five-year history as a nanny has proven to come in handy as an avenue to distant cities, including paid travel expenses and weekly stipends! And with Craigslist.org at hand, my search for a live-in position beyond the borders of Texas was an easy endeavor.
I fly out to my new home, Park Slope, Brooklyn, in four days, seven hours, and forty minutes! I'll pack lightly to better leave San Antonio behind and I'll make no promises to return anytime soon. I'll hug my beloved mother and miss my incredible friends, but I'll keep putting one foot in front of the other until I find myself watching my half-finished college education disappear in the horizon from my coach window seat.
It seems New York City will make a perfectly sufficient place to start my journey. I'll be living with a young family of four for two months, making just enough to scrape by. While I'm there, I expect to spend my first month exploring and soaking it all in, but once I feel I've taken in enough pavement and noise, I'll start job-hunting online again. I'll begin making plans for Portland, Providence, Mexico City, Vancouver, perhaps Dublin! 'Tis a beautiful thought, eh? But we both know there is a small flaw to my almost-perfect plan - i.e., where will I find another family looking for a temporary live-in nanny? But let's not pop my bubble just yet! It's still new and shiny, and I'd like it to remain inflated for as long as possible. Who knows? Maybe I'll spend a year or two in one place at a time. I guess that all depends on two things: the seat of my pants and the wind...
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