Apartment 53

Absentee Ballot

2008-01-23T22:44:00.001-05:00

I have been out of the blogosphere for so long that I have felt quite a bit of pressure on my next post. I will explain this to my fan: I sprained my wrist. It was dreadful. My new man took me snowboarding, and after a lesson where I linked turns and got cocky, I fell backwards (wrist guards were in my locker,) and pulled all of the ligaments in my right hand. So, I couldn't type.

That said, I feel like I need to ease back in to things, so I will say this:
"American Idol" is back on the air, and I feel like the world is just how it should be. However, Simon (as much as I love him,) uses the word "cabaret" way too often. He uses it to compare certain singers who are, say, ordinary, or over-dramatic, or theatrical, or who use too much verbrato, to singers who are ordinary, over-dramatic, and who use way too much verbrato and who are often found in downtown NY or LA clubs or on cruise ships for people over 80 who can't hear very well anyway.

That's all.

I'll be back soon.

A Simple Plan

2007-12-01T17:37:00.000-05:00

The other day, a friend of mine asked me a seemingly simple question. One that I would imagine for most people, would be rather easy to answer. The question was not meant to be thought-provoking, prying, or even remotely blog-worthy. It was one I’ve been asked and have answered many times in the past in some variation or another. But this particular question, at this particular time in my particular life, has awakened a sleeping fear in me that I have resisted facing for some time now.

He asked me about my five-year plan.

Five years ago I would have had an obvious answer to this question. I’d have wanted to be married, for sure. Maybe have a baby or two. A lucrative career, of course, and the fulfilling charity work on the side would just be gravy.

Piece of cake.

The thing is, I have none of the things now that I thought I would have five years ago. No husband – not even a promising prospect. I have no children. And honestly, sometimes I even question whether or not they are even a possibility at this point. Not because I don't want them... But because I don't know if I have a life that would be good for them. A career? Yes, but one that is prone to peaks and valleys financially. And volunteer work? Very, very little. I am also none of the things now I thought I would be five years ago: settled, content, emotionally committed...

Have I failed myself from five years ago? Will I fail myself again five years from now?

What I didn’t count on when I was younger, back when I had big dreams and made big proclamations and expected big things of myself, was how many external factors there were that could take me off my course. In work, a boss that stunted my growth. In love, a man who didn’t love me for who I really was. In life, there is illness and pain and worse, but also just plain old rainy days that mean pushing a trip to the supermarket to the following week. In life, there is also laughter and lust and days that are so bright and warm and wonderful that to enjoy them and the brilliance they bring is really the only thing you can do at the moment, thus pushing you off course once again.

When I was a teenager, my mother would constantly remind me that life was a series of forks in the road symbolizing our choices. Depending on which fork I chose at that moment, that decision and the road it brought me down, would then lead me to another fork in the road. And that one, of course, would be much different than the fork I would have encountered had I made a different choice originally, and so on, and so on. And this is what life is, she would say. A constantly changing map of forks that you determine by the choices you make.

I hesitated when I had to answer him, my friend who asked me this question about my five-year plan. What I have learned in the past five years since the last time I thought I knew the answer, is that perhaps the worst thing I can do for myself is plan. Because when you spend so much time planning for a life that you expect to live, I’ve realized how disappointing it can be when it doesn’t actually happen. And because of all of the plans that never came to fruition, the reality of what actually has occurred is somehow slighted in the end.

I am a person who thrives on the unexpected moments that arise day to day. An old friend I see on the street because I’ve chosen to walk home instead of taking the subway. A last-minute trip or visit from someone I love because a job that I had been counting on just happened to fall through. I love the prospect of laughing unabashedly on a day that I thought would just be a bore. Or the idea of jetting off to someplace sunny on a day that I thought I would be covered in blankets to stay warm. These are the things that make the unplanned so special. I love that I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week, or five years from now. I love that I don’t have control over it, and I love that I finally realize that. My life is mine to live. And the fork that I will choose today and likely tomorrow and the day after that will be to live wholly and with passion and with conviction and expect that everything is going to work out the way it’s supposed to.

My five-year plan is nothing if not a bit ambiguous and ambitious too. In five years I want to be loved. I want to still be excited by the idea of the unexpected. I want to be supported and give support. I want to feel deeper and live wiser than ever before. I want to have traveled to many places and met many people and learned many things I don’t know now. I want to have read many books and given many hugs. I want to have learned from the mistakes that I will inevitably make and heal from the pain that I will inevitably encounter. I want my loved-ones safe and happy. I want my work to be satisfying and I want my body to look great. I want to be more beautiful than ever before, but mostly on the inside. I want to be stronger. I want to be able, in five years, to look back on that span of time, from the moment I am writing this to the moment I remember that I did, to be able to smile at the accomplishments I’ve made and realize how lucky I am. I can’t wait for the next five years. The opportunities they will hold, the joy they will bring, and the clarity they will provide. I will live passionately and love without shame. I will work hard and relish in the unexpected obstacles that are mine to conquer. My plan is very simple, really. To cherish the small surprises and little lessons life brings us, since we never know when it will end. My plan is to live my life as it comes, instead of planning it too far ahead.

A Few of My Favorite Things (Part Deux)

2007-10-23T00:03:00.000-04:00

1. "Hey Ya" by Obadiah Parker - a new take on a not-so-classic, but very recognizable song

2. A great kiss

3. "Brothers and Sisters" - Sally Field deserved every ounce of that Emmy

4. Essie's nail color Wicked (because I'm not)

5. When a man sees me home safely

6. Hearing my mom's voice in a message

7. Colleagues who tell you what a good job you've done (especially when you have)

8. Nights that bring you clarity in the future

9. Giving a gift for no particular reason

10. My "street" jewels. I always get compliments and not one piece has cost me more than ten bucks.

My Best Friend's Wedding

2007-09-13T19:12:00.000-04:00

I spent last weekend in the town where I grew up – a town I have not visited for years. The weather was beautiful, the memories plentiful, and the occasion: wonderful. My best friend of 27 years was getting married. My friend who is like the shrink I don’t pay, the idol I actually get to talk to, the sister I chose. This woman who I adore with every ounce of myself, with whom I have shared every piece of myself, who has been in my life for longer than everyone in my life except for my mother, was becoming a wife.

I met my best friend, V, when we were five years-old. She had just moved with her family from Manhattan to the ‘burbs mid-school-year so I was assigned to be her kindergarten tour guide. After we covered the basics, (sandbox, cubbies, see-saw, finger paints,) we were thick as thieves. V with her long brown locks, me with my pre-pubescent, home-styled bob – both of us with our honest, unapologetic giggles and hearts open to a friendship we had no idea would continue to grow and grow and grow in all of the years to come.

V’s parents would become like second parents to me. They celebrated our graduation from eighth grade by giving me a beautiful gold bracelet which I still keep in my jewelry box. V and I created songs in her mom’s home recording studio. We made up tunes about the bullies at school, boys we had crushes on, and dreams of conquering the stage. Some days we left the studio and went sledding or swimming, and we had countless gossip sessions at our countless sleep-overs where the only obstacle we faced was keeping our younger, then annoying siblings away from us.

In college, V studied her first love: music. Though we went to universities just a few miles apart, our worlds were very different and so we didn't spend much time together. Her friends were aspiring artists, and mine were aspiring attorneys. I learned how to straighten my hair while V learned to color hers with hues found in a big box of crayons. I dated frat boys and V dated actors. While I was in American History, V was probably learning to speak with a German accent. And though our lives had become very different, when it came time to drive back home to the town where we had grown up, the town where our friendship began, we spent four hours in the car unable to stop talking. No matter how different we seemed to be, with V and me, nothing much ever changed. Always we were each other's chosen sister, biggest fan, most trusted advisor. Always.

V became a professional musician, and one of my favorites. Her work can be found on my iPod and on the tip of my tongue at all times. Her shows at bars in New York City were some of my favorite outings in my twenties. I was so proud, out there in the audience, watching V strum her guitar and sing her poetry. My girl was living her dream. And as the years slipped by and the likelihood of her becoming a rock star did too, V did what most people never have the courage to do. She continued to live her passion. Writing. Creating. Singing. Inspiring.

V is one of the most special people I know. She is all at once perky and calming; sentimental and practical; emotional and rational; complex and easy to please. She is talented in ways that far exceed her musicality. V has an infectious giggle, an intentionally mischievous glance, a smile that makes everyone else smile. She talks avidly with her hands and carefully selects the words that she says to describe how she feels. She's goofy in ways that only fellow goof balls really appreciate - and luckily she surrounds herself with lots of those. V makes the most of days and can usually find a way to make herself laugh so hard she has tears streaming down her face. She has a way with people - almost anyone - where she makes them feel special and loved. She feels the weight of her friends' pain and goes to great lengths to see them out of it. She is what a lot of us are: a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, a profesional... But V is all of those things one hundred percent, and manages to still give everything else one hundred percent too. I have never questioned where I've stood in V's life - she's never made me do that. She believes in telling people what she feels when she feels it. She'll call me from three thousand miles away at ten-thirty in the morning just to tell me that she loves having me in her life.

About five years ago V met a man. She was on a trip to Los Angeles and she met a man and when she came home she was madly in love. Soon he moved to New York, and soon after that they moved in together. I came to know this man she loved over beers in dark dives and when I slept on their couch while I went through a break-up of my own. And soon, I loved him too. It was impossible not to. He made my V so happy. Their love was gripping and enviable. It was built on things that are real like friendship, respect, support, and true passion – things that are next to impossible to find all wrapped up in just one partner. To be around them was to be around story-book love except that it lacked all of the superficial lust and instead included the real-life complications of real-life love. And a few months ago, this perfect man for his perfect girl popped the perfect question. And her reply was perfectly obvious.

Last weekend, V emerged from the woods in the backyard of her parents’ home. Her father led her down a tree-lined path toward the man that she has loved for so long and who she will love for an eternity. Her already beautiful face glowed. She had wildflowers tucked in to her hair, and she wore a long, white dress that flowed elegantly and proudly while she moved. Then she stopped beside her beloved and promised to be strong and honorable and loving for the rest of her days. And then he promised the same, and then they were husband and wife. We spent the night celebrating this union at a party, a wonderful party, I will note, that V planned almost entirely by herself. We danced and drank and ate and toasted and joked. We caught up with old friends and made new ones. We reminisced about high school parties and fights with parents and teachers we loved and classmates we couldn’t stand. It was the atmosphere of a typical party. But to be there, in the presence of love so real and lasting and profound, you have to realize that there was nothing typical about it at all.

V and I will probably never ride a sled together again. We’ll likely never write another silly song or be stuck in another monsoon on our way to Vermont. We’ll probably never choreograph another dance competition for her brother to judge and we’ll likely never have to sneak phone calls because one of us has been grounded. Those things are all in the past: memories to be cherished and told to our children one day when we are still best friends but have kids who need more attention than one another. So many chapters of V and me have been closed, but now V’s most amazing chapter has begun. I can’t wait to continue to be moved by her love and her life. And she knows that while my role now is a little different, a little smaller, I am always by her side.

Daydream Believer

2007-08-28T01:54:00.000-04:00

For those of you who know me, you know that it was always my dream to become an accomplished actress. I grew up reading “Bop” and “Tiger Beat,” so by “accomplished actress” I mean the blonde equivalent of Alyssa Milano or Tracy Gold. The talents of Meryl Streep or Glenn Close were far too unattainable for me to relate. I just wanted a little sitcom with a cute, male costar, a terrific 80’s wardrobe consisting of hats, leggings, and ornate belts; and a house in San Fernando Valley, which is where I believe “Big Bopper” told me Mackenzie Astin lived. Is that too much for a girl from the suburbs of New York City to ask?

I demanded that my mother (along with her master’s degree,) move with me to LA so that I could make us all rich. As you can imagine, she refused, and as usual, I slammed my door. I still don’t understand why she didn’t give in.

As I grew older, my once ballsy performances grew timid. While at one point in my life I would embrace the stage, as I aged the very idea of it made my knees quiver. I lost confidence. I lost talent. I FROZE. I wasn’t an actress. I was a phony. And the worst kind: the kind that just wanted to be able to say that I was an actress, that I was living the dream, that my house in the Valley and my belt collection were f’ing killer. Not actually the kind that wanted to work hard to get there, get over my stage fright, and show my tits to millions of people because the character would actually be showing her tits.

I am now in my thirties, (early thirties). I’ve been told time and time again by casting agents that I’m “commercial,” so I finally decided to do something about it. And now, I go to castings. This afternoon I sat in a waiting room where my agent sent me that was filled with fifty other girls who looked like me. Some were a lot prettier, some, notsomuch. We were all there vying for a print ad for a pharmaceutical company. The ad called for us to be riding a bicycle. When my name was called and I entered the casting room, there was no bike. Instead, I had to perch myself up on a stool, lift my ass and position my wrists on a metal easel posing as handlebars that would have easily given way had I been three and a half pounds heavier. I tried to channel Diana Morales from “A Chorus Line” (“Every day for a week we would try to feel the motion, feeee-eeel the motion.. DOWN the hill…”) But I pretty much think I just looked like a fool with her ass in the air and her scrawny arms leaning on a goddamned easel. I mean, I tried to feel the pedals under my feet, the wind in my hair, the desire to run someone over on the street or beat Lance Armstrong's record, but Method has never really been my thing…

I left the go-see giggling. I couldn’t help it. I had just sat in a waiting room filled with fifty people who were dressed like they should be at the start line for the IronMan and instead we were all just… you know… sitting. And I realized: there’s something sorta silly about acting, isn’t there? I mean, why pretend to be riding a bike when you can, in this great, free country, actually ride a bike? So, I left the call in my workout clothes and I headed for the gym which is where my workout clothes actually belong. (And since I live in Manhattan, I don’t have room for an actual bike in my apartment – let’s not get crazy, here).

In hindsight, I’m glad that my mother didn’t condone my mission to become a child star (though I know I would have avoided drugs and sleazy directors and instead would have just made an absolute fortune and obtained a degree from Harvard along with an Oscar before I even had my first period). I look at people like Britney, Lindsay, and Macauley, and I just want to give each of them a big hug. Poor things were just commodities to their parents – feeding their families before they could even spell. I wait for people like Dakota to fuck up royally and I just want to call up her parents and tell them to take her out of Oprah productions and put her back in the sixth grade where she should be feeling anxiety about boys, grades, and her looks where she belongs. Why should this child have to worry instead about winding up at the set on time just because a movie studio is shelling out millions to use her name at the box office? That’s no childhood.

Instead, I think they all should have waited like the rest of us dreamers so that dreaming is just that: something that while we can actually taste it, isn’t something that's actually real. That usually the fantasy of what we think we want, is really a helluva lot better than what we actually get.

Dear Dad

2007-08-24T02:24:00.000-04:00

I miss you.

I need you more now than I thought I ever would. Who is a woman without her daddy, I wonder?

I know that I drove you crazy while you were here. I never studied hard enough, you thought. I made bad choices, you said. My priorities were all "out of whack," you commented... But as I grew older I became more self-assured. And the studying and the choices and the priorities, whether in or out of whack, were part of what made me the woman that I became. And I think that eventually you became very proud.

You were not proud as most fathers are of their daughters because our relationship was quite different, wasn't it?

You were not there to change my diapers or teach me to talk or play Candyland. You were not there to oooh and aaaah over my first words or the first time I smiled or the first time I successfully operated a sit 'n spin. You came in to my life much later when you fell in love with my mother and I was part of the package. And like it or not, you had to love me too. But I think you liked it. I think you did, didn't you?

You didn't have to love me. I had an attitude problem, didn't I? You gave me braces and I didn't want to wear my headgear (that sucked). You sent me to Israel to learn about my Judaism and I spoiled it with a nasty sunburn (also sucked). You sent me to an excellent (and expensive) college and I couldn't wait to get out. But you loved me anyway. Through all of the yelling and door-slamming and grounding, I know you loved me.

You taught me so much and I wish that you were still here. I so wish that you were still here to teach me more. I yearn for your guidance. I feel like I'm spinning around and around and you are the only one who can make me stand still and tell me what to do. I would do anything to hug you once more - to have just one more conversation with you. You were so wise. You saw in people things they did not see in themselves. I was so lucky to have known you... And you were my father!

What a lucky girl I am.

Was.

Without you I would not know a lot of things.

I would not know how to parallel park. I would not know that my backhand is better than my forehand, or that the smell of nail polish really bothers some people. I would not know that property taxes sometimes negate the purpose of purchasing the property altogether, or that looking it up in the dictionary really does teach you more than someone just simply telling you the meaning. I wouldn't know that Shabbat dinners are so important to Jewish families, that Grandma's banana cake is sometimes the best medicine, or that caffeine-free diet coke is just as good as the real stuff. Without you I wouldn't know that when there is a bat in the house the smartest thing you can do is walk around with a tennis racket in front of your face, that most of my stories really can be told in five sentences (though I still rarely adhere to this lesson,) and that the Jets really do "stink". Without you I would never know how to spell chrysanthemum because when other families played basketball they got to play Horse. I would never know that Dutch Dancing could be so funny; that soaking it really can cure many things, and that splinters really won't kill me.

Without you, Dad, I would not know about self-respect. Without you I would not know that gentlemen take women they care about to nice places, and pay for dates and only kiss on the cheek after the first date. I would not know that talk is cheap and that actions speak louder than words. Without you I would be listening to words and not looking at actions. Because words are easy and actions are hard, aren't they?

You've been gone for two years now, Dad. Life has changed a lot since you've left us. Mom is getting married! I know that would make you happy - you always wanted Mom to be happy. Brother has another baby - can you believe it? Three girls and they all, as you can imagine, adore him to pieces. Between the three of them, they bear your initials which is incredible since brother and his wife didn't realize it till I pointed it out! Sister lives in California now. She is happy in the sunshine with the man who's loved her since she was a teenager and that makes me happy. She misses home, I think, her friends and our little nieces and some of the family stuff - though the family stuff has not been the same since you've left us. I am not getting married anymore. That ended soon after you and I said goodbye. We weren't right for each other, and you probably knew that, since you knew everything. But I think that you were too sick and too tired to tell me the truth since you knew that just like everything else, I'd fight you on that too. But you would have been right.

So, I am somewhat alone in the world now that Mom is moving on with her life and sister is three thousand miles away and brother has three mouths to feed and three thousand questions a day to answer... And I miss you. I miss you so much sometimes I can hardly stand it. But all I can say is that I am so glad that I had you for the time that I did, though I wish it was longer. I am not superstitious but I swear that sometimes you are here. There was a man in the elevator with us after your funeral. He acted confused and followed us to the apartment. Mom laughed at me but I swear it was you. Always the life of the party - not even wanting to miss out on your own funeral. It was you, wasn't it?!?!?!

I am so happy that you are out of pain. I know that the last few years of your life were hard and dreary and miserable... But I wish you were here. I miss the smell of your cologne and the feel of your hand patting my head because you were never quite sure how to hug me tightly. I miss the texture of your beard on my cheek when I kissed you hello and goodbye, the jokes that you made and the stories that you told hundreds and hundreds of times and yet still managed to stay funny. Mostly I just miss you being here. I miss the security of having a father to run to when things are scary and ugly and mean. I don't like feeling alone in this world and I know that if you were still here I wouldn't feel that way. But... You always knew I was resilient. You knew it when I was just a girl before I knew it myself, and you knew it when you were leaving me. But you knew all along that I could make it. And somewhere you know that I still can... And I will. But I wish that you were here anyway.

Before I lost you, I think that I was far more free with my heart. I loved people who didn't deserve it just because the mood struck, or something. And you always worried about that. But I can promise you this, Dad: I will not love freely anymore. I know what it is now to have loved and lost and I will not love another person in my life who does not earn that devotion. That was what you worried most about when it came to me, the middle of your three children. And I don't want you to have to worry anymore.

I didn't tell you this enough while you were here, and I'm sorry for that. I love you, Dad. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

A Few of My Favorite Things (Today)

2007-08-22T20:00:00.000-04:00

1. "Old School", "Elf", and "Swingers". Every time I watch any of them I find something new to laugh at.

2. Cibar. It's on Irving between 17th and 18th. Don't tell too many people about it because I really don't want it to get more crowded.

3. The song "Sleepwalking" by Angie Stevens. Download it.

4. The Broadway show "Spring Awakenings". If you don't like this show there is something wrong with you.

5. The book "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. You will not be a complete person until you read, absorb, and live this book.

6. The "Open Letter" column of GQ Magazine. It's the last page of the magazine, smart, witty, and wildly hilarious while poking fun of celebrities who have recently made asses of themselves, which of course, is the best kind of celebrity.

7. The smell of my nieces' hair and the sounds of their laughs. I think these will always be on my list.

8. Fancy hotels, beautiful shoes, decadent meals.

9. The board game Taboo. It's genius.

10. Anything Billy Joel. If you disagree with me on this, please don't ever tell me.

That's Why Darling, It's Regrettable...

2007-08-21T00:58:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about regrets. A waste of time, perhaps, but I'll spin it as a learning process. Thinking about all of those things I wish I'd never done, or things I actually had done... To think if I had only known then what I know now. To think... I find myself consumed with this burden. Furious with myself for these mistakes I never knew I was making. And now, in many circumstances, they're too late to fix. People I should have held longer, others I should have loved less. Talents I should have clung to, minutia I should have let go of. Faces I should have memorized and others I should have slapped... I'm in my early thirties now. Maybe I'm having a late quarter-life crisis, but I know we all have regrets. But these are some of mine in no particular order:

1. I regret giving up dancing. If I hadn't, I'd have a much nicer body and I wouldn't need a couple of cocktails in order to feel comfortable enough to get my groove on.

2. I regret not sticking up to the bitches who were mean to me in the fifth grade. They were assholes and everyone knew it. What was the worst that could happen? They'd have been meaner? Impossible.

3. I regret not wearing my retainers longer even though my orthodontist told me I could stop. Now my teeth have shifted and what was the point in suffering through two years of braces?

4. I regret not calling my grandfather on the phone every day. He was the only person in my whole life who loved me without judgement and now he's gone and I'll never hear him call me his "Special Girl" again. Unless I watch my bat mitzvah video.

5. I regret not pursuing my dreams.

6. I regret giving up singing. Singing was the one thing that made me really, truly, wholly, and completely happy. Vocal chords are muscles. And mine have reached atrophy.

7. I regret not talking to the boy from high school who sent me a love letter in the mail over Memorial Day weekend our junior year. He was my friend and after I got the letter I ignored him because I was too immature to face him and tell him that I didn't feel the same way. It took a lot of courage for him to send me that note and I was a jerk for not giving him the credit he deserved.

8. I regret not wearing sunscreen every day. Now my once-beautiful alabaster skin is covered with ugly freckles because I wanted the momentary satisfaction of a suntan.

9. I regret ever trying cigarettes. Now I love them so much I don't know how I'll ever be able to quit.

10. I regret quitting the guitar. This goes with the singing. It sure would be fun to jam alone in my apartment. Or pick up some extra cash on the weekends playing at at kids' birthday parties or in the Union Square subway station.

11. I regret not visiting my Dad more when he was in the hospital or calling him more when he was alive. He was the smartest person I ever knew and I would do anything to have his brilliant guidance and unconditional love in my life. Now he's gone forever and he'll never know how much I loved him because I spent so much time in my life being angry at him.

12. I regret spending so much time being angry.

13. I regret not having lived abroad when I graduated from college. I could have waited tables in Paris and had an experience that I'll never be able to have now.

14. I regret ever having worn pantyhose.

15. I regret saying "yes" when he proposed when deep in my heart I knew we weren't meant for each other. In fairness, it was a gorgeous ring.

16. I sorta regret giving the ring back. It was really gorgeous. But it was the right thing to do. But seriously. It was stunning.

17. I regret not playing more with my sister when she was little. I thought I was too grown-up for her little girl games. I was. But she was my little sister and I should have played whatever she wanted to play. Even if it was with barbies.

18. I regret spending so much time loving men who didn't deserve my love.

19. I regret buying this couch. It's too big for my apartment.

20. I regret not saving more money when I was younger. But I sure did have a fun social life.

21. I regret ever straightening my hair. Now my curls will never be the same.

22. I regret not writing more when I was unemployed. I was so miserable all I did when I wasn't job-hunting was watch Oprah and sleep late. How often do we have that much time on our hands and can still collect money from the government?

23. I regret not spending more time volunteering. This, I can change.

24. I regret that I didn't insist that my real father maintain a relationship with me. I know being a father wasn't his strong suit, but I realize now that I was the stronger one, even though I was the child. Now I think it's too late.

25. I regret having a lot of serious conversations while intoxicated. Mostly because I don't remember all of the details.

26. I regret that I didn't spend more time traveling after college. I was so eager to get on the corporate ladder that I didn't realize that I was going to miss out on real life once I started to climb.

27. I regret that I stopped reading and speaking French. Maybe I can pick it up again, but after 13 years of studying, I was almost fluent and now that will be hard to accomplish.

28. I regret saying something mean about one of my friends in camp when I was 13. I am not a mean person and she didn't deserve it. I was being a childish bitch.

29. I regret not sending Mrs. Epstein a thank-you note after she bought me all of those cupcakes when I was switching schools in the sixth grade.

30. I regret losing a year of friendship with my friend Amy after college. We made terrible roommates but amazing friends. I wish I had had the courage to just say that to her at the time instead of letting a year pass before we finally told each other how much we missed having one another during that year.

31. I regret working so hard at things that I didn't care much about when I could have been working hard at things for which I felt passion.

32. I regret not helping my mom out more when my dad was sick. She really needed the help and I just couldn't handle it. But I should have sucked it up.

33. I regret watching every horror movie I've ever seen. I don't know why I torture myself.

34. I regret losing touch with people who were good to me, who loved me, who enriched my life. It is hard to find people like that when you become an adult.

35. I regret not studying harder in college. My parents paid good money for that school and while my grades were decent, I took some really interesting classes and did the bare minimum to do ok. And now there's a lot of shit that I don't know SHIT about.

36. I regret not spending more time with Art before he died. He was one of the greatest influences in my professional life and one of the smartest men who ever lived. I wish I had heard more of his stories, gotten more of his advice, and told him more often how much I appreciated him.

37. I regret my prom dress. (But that's normal, right?)

38. I regret relying on Cliff's Notes when I should have been analyzing the book more carefully.

39. I regret throwing away photo albums and old love letters because my ex didn't want me to have them. I should have thrown away my ex instead.

40. I regret ever having cried at work.

41. I regret not playing tennis in college. That was a really dumb decision. My serve would seriously kick ass right now if I had.

42. I regret spending so much time thinking my grandmother was a pain in the ass when really she was just afraid.

43. I regret not helping my mom take better care of the dog. Eventually we had to get rid of him and I think it broke my mother's heart.

44. I regret leaving my mom's antique sewing scissors outside in the rain when I was six.

45. I regret every time I ever sped in a car. It's stupid and dangerous.

46. I regret not taking that reporter job in West Virginia. That would've been a helluva thing, wouldn't it?

47. I regret not asking for more money at my job when I knew I deserved it.

48. I regret kissing more than half the men I ever kissed. Only because they were bad kissers and didn't deserve to be kissing me. What a waste of time.

49. I regret not asserting myself in one way or another when I wasn't being treated respectfully.

50. I regret talking so much when I should have been listening more.

51. I regret not taking better advantage of beautiful days.

52. I regret not spending more time with my sister when she lived in New York.

53. I regret not spending more time with my nieces before they left the city. They're getting so big, so quickly.

54. I regret spending my 22nd birthday writing that term paper for my boyfriend in college. He was a real jerk.

55. I regret not learning Spanish when I dated an Argentinian for two years.

56. I regret being so self-conscious of my body when I was a teenager. I really wasn't that fat.

57. I regret forgetting to rsvp to my friend's bridal shower. I got busy. It slipped my mind. And now she doesn't want to be my friend anymore.

58. I regret accepting a drink from a stranger at a bar.

59. I regret not seeing my parents as people instead of parents, until now.

60. I regret hiring a girl to work for me because I got tired of looking for someone when she wasn't right for the job. Ultimately she got fired and I feel terrible about that.

61. I regret spending so much money on a dress I wore once and will probably never wear again.

62. I regret not finding a rent-controlled apartment when I first moved to New York and staying in it.

63. I regret moving to New York as early as I did.

64. I regret losing touch with my little sister from my sorority. She was one of the greatest people I'd ever met.

65. I regret not taking more pictures.

66. I regret having some pictures of certain occasions I'd like to forget.

67. I regret being kind of rude to my Australian friend who came to visit me in Boston. He was just trying to see the states, but man did he overstay his welcome.

68. I regret not decorating my apartment when I first moved in. Now I just want to move again so I don't have to deal with it.

69. I regret subscribing to so many magazines I don't have time to read.

70. I regret not making more time to read.

71. I regret not calling my paternal grandparents more often. They died when I was young and I have wonderful memories of them. I wish I had more.

72. I regret buying a beautiful wedding dress that I am now just going to have to put on Ebay.

73. I regret not going to The Blue Hole when I was in Belize.

74. I regret that I never got a chance to say "goodbye" to my former future in-laws.

75. I regret that I didn't get in to a steady exercise routine when I moved to the city. I really hate working out and now going to the gym is about as fun as going to the dentist.

76. I regret not having flossed more often.

77. I regret not saying something more meaningful to my friend, Jeremy, the night that he died. I didn't know it would be the last time we would speak.

78. I regret that my first live concert was Huey Lewis and the News.

79. I also regret that it was with my Temple Youth Group.

80. I regret that I never learned how to take care of plants. Plants inspire me and when I have them in my apartment, they die. Not so inspiring.

81. I regret slamming the door so many times when I was a teenager. Maybe if I had tried speaking to my parents calmly they would have heard me.

82. I regret not giving people more compliments in my youth. People deserve compliments.

83. I regret giving compliments I didn't mean just because I was sucking up to people who didn't deserve them.

84. I regret a vacation I took this past March. My life will never be the same again.

85. I regret not taking enough vacations earlier in life.

86. I regret spending so much time in high heels. Now my feet are ruined forever.

87. I regret not ever learning Outlook. I will be a filofax girl until I die.

88. I regret ever having worn blue nailpolish. Trendy? Maybe. Tacky? Yes.

89. I regret caring so much when I was younger about what everybody thought of me. I was pretty great. I should have just been myself. All the time.

90. I regret having once lived in a six-floor walk-up with no air conditioning. That pretty much blew.

91. I regret selling all of my furniture that I loved because my ex hated it. Now I'll never see it again and my life is strangely emptier because of it.

92. I regret not trying certain things because I was too afraid that I would fail. The only real failure is in never trying at all.

93. I regret losing touch with my cousins. My family is too small for us to be estranged.

94. I regret offering to pick up the check on so many dates. Men should be gentlemen. It's part of the territory. They pay, we get our periods. Fair is fair.

95. I regret forgetting all the words to Les Miserables. I used to be able to sing the entire show.

96. I regret spending so much time filling my brain with useless information. I mean, is Les Miserables paying me to know all of the words to the show? Don't think so.

97. I regret ever finding the game Free Cell. It's more addictive than crack.

98. I regret not investing in my retirement account earlier in life.

99. I regret not getting in on the ground floor at Microsoft, Amazon, or Google. That would've been pretty awesome.

100. I regret that I didn't pay closer attention during computer class or maybe I would have gotten in on the ground floor at Microsoft, Amazon, or Google. Instead I got a C- in computers.

101. I regret having so many regrets.

I once read a quote that said "If you're going to do something tonight that you'll regret in the morning, then sleep late."

Wake me up in a year.

SWF Seeking Gentleman

2007-08-16T19:06:00.000-04:00

After spending my twenties bouncing from one serious relationship to another, I now find myself single again in my early thirties. My married friends seem to think of this status as somewhat glamorous, incredibly fun, and oh so “Sex and the City”. I’m here to tell you that it’s not any of those things.

I am not a husband hunter. I am also not a woman who needs to be in a relationship. I am a woman who needs to be in the right relationship. I was thisclose to getting married: a union I think should be respected, holy, and permanent. We didn’t go through with it because our union would not have been any of those things. And so we cancelled the band, ate the deposit, and divided up the DVD collection. It’s worse to be with the wrong husband than no husband at all.

I got back on the dating horse fairly quickly. But instead of bouncing between serious relationships, I bounced between dates. I met plenty of men that would suffice for a Saturday night dinner or a Wednesday night happy hour, but never finding one with whom I could actually imagine telling my deepest fears, or worse, being naked with. For a while, I went through these motions dating bachelor after bachelor, never having my socks knocked off, rarely having my stomach flutter. I couldn’t understand why. I have always loved men. From the time I was a little girl I was always a flirtatious little thing, running around recess pecking boys on the cheek, to becoming a woman unafraid of sending a beer to the looker on the other side of the bar.

And then I realized: after all of these dates… These countless evenings of cocktails and tapas, new restaurants and the occasional weekend get-away… In all of my searching, I had yet to find a gentleman.

There was mid-sip guy. He was the one who, while I still had a drop of The Four Season Hotel’s finest white wine swimming down my throat, got up to leave.

There was the yeller. He and I had plans for our third date the night after the black-out. Because the city lost power, I also lost cell phone service. By the time the electricity returned, so did my senses. He’d left fourteen angry messages on my voicemail demanding to know why I wasn’t calling him to confirm our plans. Apparently he was on a different power grid.

There was the cheap one who, after we’d been dating a couple of months, while on a short road trip with a couple of my friends, actually accepted twenty bucks from one of them for gas. I almost vomited.

There was the one I bonded with over email for months while he allegedly completed a residency in surgery up in Boston. When the night came that we were finally to go to dinner after his move to New York, he stood me up.

Oh- then the one who lives all the way uptown, while I am a downtown girl, who was an ill-advised set-up arranged through a friend of my mother’s. Every time he asked me out he expected me to travel the few miles that separated us. Come on.

And of course there was “Pinky Ring”. That didn’t really have anything to do with him not being a gentleman, but really, a PINKY RING? ‘Nuff said.

The father who raised me was old-school. He believed in chivalry and honesty and the idea of men manning up when it came to the women they loved. When I was in the tenth grade I dated a senior who had broken his leg in a soccer game. It didn’t matter to my dad that the poor guy had a cast on his leg stretching from his ankle to his hip. It also didn’t matter to my dad that it was February and that ice and snow covered the path from our driveway to the porch. Even with the best of excuses, I was not permitted to leave that house until that boy came to the door to pick me up like a gentleman.

Meeting these people was nothing if not interesting. I could entertain my married friends, engaged friends, gay friends, single friends, and non-friends with tales of my tragic quest for Mr. Right. But after a while, it stops being so funny. After a while I have to remember the fact that my dad taught me to be a lady because I deserve to be treated like one. I don’t know what it is about our generation – the men who think they can get away with throwing a woman a bone once in a while and hang on to a great gal, or the women who seem to think that this behavior is acceptable, but I am here to say that it isn’t okay. When you love someone, you want their life to be better. You want them to feel special. You want them to feel wonderful about being who they are. If these men are too narcissistic or selfish to appreciate that, then they certainly won’t appreciate the concept of being with a woman like me. And while I hope to find the right guy one day, I have to remember that sometimes it’s better to be alone. After all, you’ll always treat yourself better.

Goodbye, Love

2007-07-17T18:54:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine recently had her heart broken. She has had her heart broken before, but this time was different because it was shattered in to a million little pieces by a man she trusted implicitly.

To explain this trust, I must back up. My friend met said heart-breaker in grade school when they were both young and awkward. They grew closer in high school and saw each other through braces, pinned jeans, and keg parties. By the time they went to separate colleges, they had shared just one kiss but millions and millions of memories.

My friend loved this boy. She truly loved him. He wasn’t the coolest boy in school, or the most handsome or the smartest. But to her, he was the most special. She never loved him romantically, or desired him sexually. But being around him just made her happy. Life, especially as a teenager, can be a challenge. And their friendship gave her laughter in times she only thought she could cry; companionship when she felt the most alone; and strength in the moments she thought she had none. Their love was simple in its logistics, but complex in its layers. She would do anything for this boy, she would come to realize, and as they turned in to adults, their friendship would see times of absence and times of intensity.

One weekend in late winter, my friend went to visit this man in the Caribbean where he was temporarily stationed for work. And on an evening set against a backdrop of turquoise waters, warm trade winds, and an abundance of cocktails, the bed that they had shared before platonically became the site where, after sixteen years of friendship, they would finally make love.

My friend returned from this passionate weekend both ecstatic and unsure. This man, this figure in her life who, for so long was a dear friend - a best friend - had suddenly become something quite different. And my friend set out on an emotional journey to define what had changed.

And then she realized that she was in love with him.

Mutual friends had always teased them for spending so much time together and not taking things to another level. She never thought he was her type. He always claimed he wasn’t interested. Deep down she wondered if there was a reason that they had waited so long, and she believed that, indeed, there was. And so they kept their new terms quiet - hidden from the people who knew them as only one thing and who would inevitably judge them as the other thing they had become.

Their affair continued for a few months. They lived their love life in the shadows where mutual friends couldn’t see. They shared secrets and fears and bodily fluids and their friendship reached a place where it never had before. It had become a relationship. And with any relationship, it came with its set of complications.

The man who my friend loved and adored shied away from commitment. He was not necessarily afraid, but more disinterested in the concept. But my friend, moved by their deep connection, inspired by their newly discovered physical compatibility, remained undaunted and did what she does best. She gave many chances, hoped against hope, hung in there when she wasn’t being considered or courted, trying all the while to see the best in him, this man she had loved since he was just a boy. The rest of us who knew her could see what she was doing. And with any other man, my friend, now a woman wise in relationships and matters of the heart, would have done the right thing and walked away. But with this man she was different. She was different because after years of friendship she never believed that this man could be one who would let her down.

She was wrong.

In an all-too-brief email sent from a computer in an office in a building in another state, this man told my friend he didn’t want her. After sixteen years of road trips and movies and letters and friendship, followed by months of kisses and pillow talks and tears over sick parents and broken dreams, chats about trips to take and families to visit, all was lost in a three sentence electronic note without apology or explanation. The man my friend loved without exceptions or conditions, who she loved for everything real and true and sincere about love, the man who she wanted to be her family and her forever, to love and honor and care for until she took her last breath, chose a life without her. And my friend, while devastated and stunned, but still wise in matters of the heart, realized that it’s the people you love the most in life who hurt you the deepest. She realized that sometimes blind leaps of faith are really just senseless leaps of hope with terrible odds, equal to buying a lottery ticket or surviving a plane crash. And in matters of the delicate, trusting, pure heart of my friend, she realized that these are not leaps to take.

Remember, my friend, that you are loved. Remember that one day when you receive true reciprocity, someone will see what we all see. And on that day, even this great love will seem small.

Puppy Love

2007-07-10T22:13:00.000-04:00

I am dog-sitting.

My mother is traveling the west coast with her fiance and has left in my care, her beloved Maltese (affectionately referred to as my "little brother"). He resembles a white muppet, with hair that sticks up like Animal's when you play with it, and an underbite that always makes him look like he's smiling. He's paper-trained, loves to nap, and doesn't crave the outdoors on hot, humid days. In other words, he's pretty low-maintenance as far as dogs go.

The last few days I've woken up to wet licks on my nose, reminding me that he does need to eat and enjoys his meal early in the morning. He digs through my sheets as though it's a suburban backyard, and when he's finished dining, runs around in a circle on the rug, chasing his own tail. Then, he'll meander over to the couch and snooze. Then, when the day is done, we climb in to bed together and he lays on his back ready for his belly to be tickled.

My days have been long lately. I work from home which sometimes makes them longer since there seems to be no separation between where I work and where I rest - so I tend to just usually work which doesn't always seem that bad when you are able to do it with MSNBC on in the background. But it catches up with me. And I realize that I am tired and burnt and sometimes so stressed I want to just go to sleep and not wake up.

But the last couple of nights I realize I haven't dreaded the morning. There's something about waking up to a set of little black eyes and floppy white ears and the forgiving, always-loving kisses of a sweet little pooch that make mornings and the days that follow just a little more bearable.

Papa Don't Preach

2007-04-25T22:42:00.001-04:00

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am an American Idol fan. Ok, fan might be the wrong word. Um… OBSESSED FAN might be more appropriate. So like any good obsessed fan, I watched the much-hyped, good-in-concept “Idol Gives Back” tonight in lieu of the ordinary much-hyped, nail-biter elimination show. For two hours I watched performances by Celine Dion, Annie Lenox, Kelly Clarkson and (the one who brought me to tears,) Josh Groban. Between performances I also watched a slew of celebrities stare in to the camera from LA, (or in some cases, Africa,) and ask the American public for money.

I’m sorry. What?

Ok, I’ll forgive Ellen. She co-hosted with Ryan, and she personally donated a hundred grand. Go Ellen. But was that actually Madonna surrounded by African toddlers telling ME to donate money? MADONNA? Yes, I am referring to the same Madonna who, at some point in the last couple of years was photographed by Vogue Magazine in her sprawling British estate boasting something like a hundred acres and 40 rooms. The same Madonna who charges more money for concert tickets than almost any other artist. And yes, the same Madonna who, in any given issue of Star, US Weekly, or Hello can be seen with the latest Louis Vuitton bag or Chanel sunglasses. Yes, THE Madonna. She was asking me to give money.

Look, don’t get me wrong. I appreciate celebrities. I get it. They use their fame in situations like this to bring PR attention to the telethon-like setting so that nobodies like me will be more inclined to tune in and watch. And maybe, just maybe, a nobody like me will also be more inclined to give away my hard-earned cash to a cause they’re telling me about from a teleprompter just because they’re telling me to. Let me tell you something: I resent it. The reason people like Madonna are so rich is because of nobodies like me. And you. We go to their concerts, movies, watch their tv shows, buy their albums and their designs from their clothing lines. We buy the magazines that feature them on the covers which measures how big they really are, which makes other magazines want them on their covers which make more studios want them in their films and tv shows. We’re the reason they have so much cash. And now they ask us for more?
Sorry, Madge, or Esther, or whatever you’re going by these days. Did you just actually ask me while I’m sitting here in my 400 square-foot apartment to donate money? Was that before or after you misplaced a family member in that big manse of yours?

I donated. I logged my jet-lagged butt on to americanidol.com and gave a hundred bucks. I believe in charity, feeding hungry children, and getting much-needed antibiotics to the people who need them in remote parts of the African continent. I also know that I don’t donate often enough or give enough of my time. So, for American Idol to have reminded me to give to those less fortunate, and to have made it so easy for me, I say “thank you”.
But I do want to say that I find it ironic that Hollywood feels the right to ask. It’s one thing to produce a show that tells us all about poverty in the south and disease in Africa and bring to our consciousness every once in a while that we can make a difference in pretty affordable ways. But it’s quite another for all of these rolling-in-dough stars to get even more PR exposure by participating in such productions. And if they’re going to challenge us to give, then I challenge them to give more. At last count, Ryan Seacrest announced that the donations totaled thirty million dollars. The stars who participated in tonight’s program and reaped the benefits of its reach and public relations push should get together and match what America pledged. Because at some point, after all of the movie stubs and concert tickets and cable tv subscriptions and magazine articles, they owe us too.

Another Place but Home

2007-02-07T01:51:00.000-05:00

I’m back in New York City now after a three week-long trip to Central America. I’ve always been a big lover of travel and with my flexible schedule I knew that I wanted to take a fairly lengthy jaunt to somewhere a little off the beaten path so my travel partner and I decided on Belize, Guatemala and Honduras. For three weeks I didn’t touch a pair of high heels. I let my makeup bag fall to the bottom of my suitcase, allowed my normally blown-straight hair to return to its naturally curly state, and traded my trademark Bulgari perfume for insect repellent with a high concentration of deet. I loved every second. My cuticles, usually cracked and picked at, went untouched. My toes, usually crammed in to overpriced, overly uncomfortable shoes, flexed free in flip-flops and sneakers. We hiked Mayan ruins, zip lined through the jungle, snorkeled with sharks and stingrays, watched shooting stars, and admired toucans, iguanas, turtles, monkeys, blue herons, and hummingbirds in their natural habitats. When the day came for me to come home, I nearly cried.

I am a New Yorker. My family is here. My friends are here. My career is here. My life is here. That’s what I’ve always told myself. But being what seemed like a world away, I realized that what I’ve been doing isn’t living. It’s getting by. I’ve been working to go out, and going out to forget about work. I worry too much about what I look like, how much I weigh, whether my locks are too frizzy, if my mascara is running. I lie awake at night fretting about how I’ll ever retire, if I’ll ever meet the right guy, if I’m living a righteous existence, who I might be letting down. I think about moving to Africa to work with orphans, traveling to Thai beaches to once and for all decompress, giving it all up – everything I’ve worked for to build and establish – to bartend on a remote island somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Why? What is it about being somewhere else that makes me like myself so much more than when I’m here?

Coming out of a particularly rough 2006, this trip in early 2007 couldn’t have come at a better time. I needed an opportunity to think. I needed to be away from everything known and familiar to really get to the heart of what I want from this life of mine, what I need to be happy, what I need to give back to the universe to assure that my life, when I leave it, was not meaningless. And sure enough, what I realized was that no matter how far you go, you follow yourself everywhere. The scenery was different, but I was still me. Those 2006 troubles that I was so eager to leave in New York when I boarded that plane accompanied me throughout my trip. My hair was only frizzier, and I still hadn’t met Mr. Right, and my finances – after a month of not working – were officially blown. So why did I need to go so far from home to figure out that I was no more closer to where I wanted to be? There is something about seeing the world around you – a world that you would have never otherwise seen before – that makes you better; more fulfilled; more whole. It makes you realize that real life is everywhere - not just in the small corner of the universe where I try to exist.

On a beach in Roatan I saw a little boy. He was so small, dressed in what looked like (from my chaise lounge,) a pair of lightweight pajamas. His cocoa skin luminous against the white sand and turquoise water. He got sand in his eyes, and he cried. He cried hard and long. The woman with him, who I assumed to be his mother, crouched down beside him and lifted his pajama top to wipe the grains from his face. And he took his shirt end from this woman, fetched those granules from his corneas and started to frolic. And then it happened again. But this time she watched from afar, as this little guy who couldn’t have been more than five, stopped his own tears, and quickly, by using his top, once again, to wipe the sand from his eyes so that he could continue to run and gallop and trance and saunter along the beautiful Honduran beach.

I watched this little boy, entranced by his adorableness, enveloped in his fun, intrigued by his independence, and I thought of something: no matter where we are we all learn to wash the sand from our eyes. That whether you’re on a dreamy beach in the Caribbean or a dreary sidewalk on the east side, at some point things are going to smack you right in the face and make you stop for a moment, but we all have the ability to somehow wipe them away and continue with our fun. And I realized that no matter how far I traveled or how long I ran, no matter how far I was from home, those grains of sand would follow me. And it was my job to wipe them away so that I could go on with my journey - which I hope will never end.

Dependence Day

2006-12-14T02:18:00.000-05:00

I have always needed my independence - even as a child. My mother tells the story of my first day of kindergarten when she bought me a dress that had a little doll that was attached by a string to the front pocket. She thought this was a good idea so that if I were lonely or scared on my first day of school that I would at least have the doll since I didn't know anyone. She waited with me at the bus stop and as that yellow minivan ready to cart me off to my future pulled up to our driveway, the doors opened and I just ran up to it, scrambled up the stairs without even looking back and yelled "BYE MOM!!!" To this day, 26 years later, my mother says she wished she'd bought the doll for herself because clearly I was not going to need it and she had a big, giant lump in her throat. It was the first time she realized that her baby didn’t always need her Mommy.

My time alone was never lonely, and it was usually quite productive and happy. When I was ten, my mom was busy working so I sewed my own name labels in to my camp clothes the night before I left home for two months. When I was in the sixth grade, and my mother was still single and at home with the flu, I called her from the school’s payphone to find out how she was feeling, because that’s what she did when I was home sick from school. She was so ill she could barely speak, so I took my babysitting money and stopped at the Burger King in walking distance to our condo and bought my poor, sick mother a giant whopper and fries. I meant it in the most loving of ways, I swear.

I have always enjoyed doing things on my own. In school I was considered “popular,” (except for the fifth grade, but that’s another story for another time,) but I was always content to be alone. Sure, I went to parties and drove my drunk friends around and kissed boys (most of whom were, incidentally, not very good kissers,) but there was always a sense of relief when I reached my bedroom and could just be by myself. Some of it, of course, is the writer in me. I would fill up pages and pages of journals with the most dramatic adolescent drivel you can imagine. But, I needed my alone time to do it. I actually needed to be alone with my thoughts. Literally.

As I got older, I grew more independent. The sidelines at my soccer games were filled with the parents of my teammates but my parents were rarely there (it wasn’t because they didn’t love me, they both had full-time jobs.) But I didn’t really mind. Soccer was my thing – I didn’t play defense so my dad could high-five me after we’d won a game. If I was in a school play or had a singing performance, my parents couldn’t always make it, and they’d leave it to me to find a way to get to and from different events when they weren’t available to chauffeur me around. They knew I was independent enough to figure it out.

And figure it out, I did. After graduating a semester early from college, I worked two jobs (one for the resume, one for the bills,) and moved to Manhattan with a promising career and a heart full of hope. Ten years later I’ve been knocked down by this dear city here and there, but I’m better because of it: wiser, more grounded, and certainly more independent. But at some point I must be forced to ask myself: when can my independence turn in to loneliness?

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not your average recluse. I have lots of friends, enjoy nights on the town several times a week, talk avidly on the phone, email constantly… But there is something peaceful and comforting about coming home to my own apartment where I don’t have to answer the phone if I’m tired after a long day; where I can literally hide from the energy of this city that has chewed me up and spit me out my fair share of times; where I know that I have a place always, even if I’m the only person happy to see me. And if even I’m not happy to see me, at least there’s no one else under those covers that I can pull over my head till it’s time to start again.

Sometimes, I will admit, I have trouble asking for help. “I can do it myself,” I’ll say. But I know I can’t. I can’t hang my blinds or move heavy furniture or carry heavy groceries all alone. I’m not stupid, I’m stubborn. Sometimes so stubborn that I’ll let my independence get in the way of getting what I really need, and what a loved one is really offering. But what happens if I need them and then one day they’re not there anymore? Then what?

About six months ago I was terribly ill. I suffered for days before admitting that I needed help, and that was only because I passed out cold on my apartment floor – alone. I called 9-1-1 and the medics came and took me outside to the waiting ambulance. The driver, who carried me from my apartment to the vehicle, wore a silver belt buckle with a skull and crossbones. He had a shaved head, a few tattoos and very kind eyes. He kept asking me if I was always this pale. Yes, I’m very pale. No, you’re extremely pale, he told me. You don’t have any color in your lips. All I could do was give him a half-grin, as though he’d just made a joke and I got it, but I was too weak to give him a good solid laugh. So I just stared at his buckle and focused on it hard wondering where he’d gotten it and who’d made it. Who was this silversmith designing these angry looking belt buckles for EMTs with such warm hands and strong arms? I wondered this so that I wouldn’t faint again.

I was in the emergency room alone. I had my cell phone but I felt guilty calling anyone before I knew if there was something really wrong. Plus, my chest really hurt and I was having a hard time breathing, and therefore a hard time talking. I dug through my purse and somehow found my insurance card, and told the attending physician – in half breaths – what hurt, what had happened, how I was feeling. Could I please get some juice or something? I was really thirsty. No, you can’t drink anything. How about some water? Or some (gasp,) ice chips, please? No. And he left. And as I was lying on a crappy, rubber mattress all by myself, about to die and in excruciating pain, I called my mother. I called her because I needed her help. And I didn’t have anyone else to call who would care as much, even though I knew I’d worry her. I called her and gasped in to the phone the name of the hospital and the street it was on. And instead of telling her I could handle it on my own when she told me she was coming in to the city, I just said “ok” and hung up smiling as much as my condition would allow. Because for the first time, in a very long time, no matter how independent I was, I really did need my Mommy.

Confessions of a Compulsive Quitter

2006-12-12T17:59:00.000-05:00

I really have only one memory of one of the last times I was on stage: the applause. I know that there were months of rehearsal that lead to that point. Training with vocal coaches to perfect the cockney accent; days with a Broadway (yes, Broadway!) choreographer to hone those ale-house jigs; and hours spent blocking scenes, memorizing lines, and painting sets. But, oh that applause. All of that agonizing preparation pales when I think of that giant curtsey, those bright lights, and those ecstatic cheers from the faceless silhouettes in the audience. It is a moment I’ve frozen vividly and embellished for sure. There are times I’ll return to that moment confident that I received a standing ovation – sometimes even an encore, and most definitely a “bravo!” from someone in the audience (not related to me.) It is a moment that I cherish passionately – one that was defining and pivotal in my life. I was an actress. And I would make it my life’s mission to remain just that and come out on top.

That was over fifteen years ago. I never made it to Broadway, exactly, (my last office is on the corner of 42nd and the-place-I always-dreamed-of-but-never-had-the-guts-to-pursue.) With the exception of drunken karaoke I think I’ve sang six – maybe seven – times in public since the curtain fell on my adolescence. I could give you a slew of excuses: the theater program in my high school sucked (though one of my former classmates did go on to win a Tony Award.) My parents didn’t support my career (they didn’t, really, but just wanted to me to go to college and have a back-up plan.) I worked several hours a week when I was in college and didn’t have time to concentrate on theater (which is true, but the Gap tended to be flexible when it came to schedules for its university student employees.) Bottom line is I gave up something I loved with no good excuse. And that makes me wonder: does it mean I loved it less than I think I did? Or, worse, was I so afraid of failing at it that I never even tried? Cliché, perhaps, but possible. Even likely. Or am I just one of those people? Bad with follow-through. Head in the clouds. Loses interest easily. You know: a quitter.

Performing isn’t the only thing I’ve quit. My mother will be happy to tell you about all of the money she spent on ballet, jazz, tennis, figure skating, cello, piano, violin, and guitar lessons when I was younger. (Sorry Mom, am I forgetting anything?) My hobby, it seemed, was finding new hobbies. When I grew tired with one, I started another. My sister, on the other hand, five years younger, who had a mother, now five years wiser, had to suffer through cello lessons, and cello lessons alone for nine straight years. My mother agreed to let her quit at age eighteen if she so chose. On her eighteenth birthday, before the girl even had a chance to run out and register to vote, I believe she snapped the bow straight over her knee at the dinner table – just for dramatic effect. It makes me wonder: who’s better off? Me, who spent years dabbling in this and that, never quite focusing on one thing and now regretting having given up all of them? Or her, who spent nine years of her life devoted (I use the term loosely,) to one, beautiful instrument she’ll never touch again prohibiting her from trying something new? It’s funny, really. Two such different experiences and yet we’re both a couple of quitters. Maybe it’s in the genes.

A couple of years ago I decided that my quitting days were behind me. That I was going to do what I could to reclaim what I had lost. So, I signed up for voice lessons with one of the most renowned instructors in Manhattan. So I sounded like shit in the shower, big deal. This guy was my ticket. He’d help me find my voice and in no time I’d be ready for the Great White Way. For over a year I met with Phil and I sang – no, I sang my ass off. First scales, then songs I chose (mostly show tunes – I love my show tunes.) I had a microphone, a piano accompaniment, and a duet when I needed one (Phil had a great voice.)

And you know what? I stunk. Really. In the beginning I told myself I needed more practice when that cacophony emerged from my pretty mouth, and that’s what Phil said too (for a $70 half hour anyone would have to agree.) But after a year, and thousands of dollars, and still thousands more hours away from ever being good enough to even audition at an open call, I quit again. But this time it wasn’t because I was bored or fascinated by something else. This time it was because I had the strength to admit that however much I wanted to be great, wishing wasn’t enough. That while quitting isn’t as glamorous as a dressing room with your very own star, sometimes it’s just what you need to do to be true to yourself. Maybe I would have been a great pianist, or gymnast or potter if I had just stuck with it, but I do know that what’s next on my list is to try to quit worrying about it.

Many Wrongs Don't Make it Wrong

2006-12-11T01:52:00.000-05:00

In my youth, I was far more reckless with my heart than today. On a regular basis I took blind leaps of faith in to relationships with men who hadn’t earned my loyalty or admiration. Every single time it was a mistake. I don’t necessarily begrudge this list of undeserving, unmemorable boyfriends for what was really my own series of haphazard decisions. The truth is, I loved being in relationships. I was good at them. I loved having a strong man’s arms around me, a steady Saturday night date, someone to shop for on Valentine’s Day and someone to care for when they were sick. But they didn’t love me back and I missed the signals. No, I didn’t miss them, I ignored them. Without a second thought I forgave unreturned phone calls, cancelled plans, and broken promises. I made excuses for these inexcusable men-boys to my best friends, my concerned parents and worst of all: to myself.

As I got older and (I can’t believe I’ll actually say this,) benefited from more break ups under my belt, I changed. It wasn’t overnight and it isn’t always terribly obvious. I still love the idea of love, and I probably give men the benefit of the doubt far too early in relationships, and I still believe that love is out there waiting for me. I remain open to it, certain that it exists and that I deserve to find it. I remain wide open to it in that I refuse to allow any past experiences with Mr. Wrongs to wrong someone else. I might have baggage – we all do – but I’m careful to keep mine tucked neatly in the overhead compartment, only to be accessed when I’ve reached the right destination and I’m sure that no one in the cabin can be hurt by items that might have shifted during flight.

I guess what I find most amazing in this personal journey is how many people out there who don’t share my value for precautionary measures. They leave their bags wide open for all to see their personal affects, dirty laundry, and taboo items for relationship rides that will ultimately stall their own journeys and worse, delay their fellow passengers. Then there are others who keep their valises so tightly locked that even the most skilled in security are unable to access them. It makes me wonder what was so terrible, so traumatic, and so paralyzing that these people can actually live with depriving themselves of their inherent human right to love and be loved in return. I’m sure some of them were like the old me: betrayed too many times, trusting of too many sinners, and insincere about their own role that they played in their resulting unhappiness.

And so today, instead of finding in me the capacity for blind love, you’ll instead find the capacity for love that is warranted. You’ll see the ability to find love that is real and love that is nothing more and nothing less than the over-glorified, simple concept of just plain love. Because it is my basic human right to look for it, find it, nurture it and protect myself from it when it is just plain wrong.

Oh, Brother

2006-11-07T23:51:00.000-05:00

I once read somewhere that there is no greater impact on a woman’s life than the relationships she has with the men who cross her path. In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that mine have not always been positive. My parents split when I was ten in an at first, amicable, and then later, tumultuous divorce – the result being that I have not spoken to my biological father in seventeen years. My mother went on to soon remarry. I was eleven when my mom and step-dad met, and nine months later, the day before my twelfth birthday, they were wed. My step-father took my sister and me in to his home as if we were his own. The typical challenges facing a typical step-family were all there. New house, new rules, new parent, new everything… and very little of the old. Every little thing was a big, giant adjustment. But over time, everything somehow fit together. Eventually, we all forgot what came from my mom’s condo and what was already in my step-dad’s house when we moved in. No one really remembered if that antique desk came from my maternal grandparents or my step-dad’s great aunt. The family photos on the mantle went from looking like two families sharing one house to ones that looked like we all shared a last name. My family was now blended. And while my mother and step-father worked hard to make that a possibility, its ultimate success is entirely attributable to someone else.

My step-father brought with him to his marriage to my mom, a son. My brother, an only child, was just sixteen when his mother died tragically. Not even two years later, just months before he left for college, his father took in a new wife, and two new daughters – one of them (me,) with a little bit of an attitude problem. Brother kicked off the new relationships with undying devotion. He was thrilled to have two little sisters, and probably quietly thrilled that he would not be leaving his father alone in a sad, empty house when he went off to university. He created a term of endearment for my mother (SOM, short for “step-mom,”) and at a time that he could have kicked and screamed with petulance and self-righteousness that he was, after all, not necessarily ready to have a new family, Brother instead invited us in to his home, his life, his heart, with arms open as wide as the sea.

Families are challenging enough, but a blended family is something quite different. It’s nice to think that we could all fit together like “The Brady Bunch,” but everyone in the blended family comes with their own pain and fears and opinions and they must all manage to fit under one small roof. A blended family has to work harder – both as individuals and as a unit. They can not, for one moment, take for granted the very concept of family to which we should all be entitled at birth.

My sister is five years younger than me. I remember the day she was born, changing her diapers, babysitting for her when my mom had to work late, giving her medicine when she was sick, and playing dolls with her when I thought I was too grown up. With Brother, however, childhood memories I have none. We met when he was in his last year of high school and I was in my first year of difficult teenage transition. My sister, the baby, was always cute and usually easy to love. My brother snuggled her on the first day they met. I, on the other hand, thought I was too mature for a new brother’s affection, but Brother knew that I needed it. And Brother gave what I did not know I wanted.

At the time I didn’t appreciate my brother for the sacrifice he might have made in an effort to form a quick, cohesive bond in our family. At the time, I was twelve, and I was dealing with my own issues, my own anger, my own transitions, and everyone else’s came after my own. At twelve, it didn’t occur to me that anyone else could have been experiencing pain or trouble or transitional opposition… And then I grew up.

About a year and a half ago, our father (no longer step-father,) passed away. We entered the funeral home as a family, and we went to the cemetery as a family. We said the mourner’s kaddish as a family, and we sat shiva as a family. Brother, now with his own family made up of a wife and two children, at 36 had lost both of his parents. But he had us. A SOM (now called Mom,) and two sisters whose adoration for Brother was real and genuine and true. And Brother leaned on us, just as we leaned on him. During the painful process of my father’s illness, hospitalization, and slow, painful passing – we all leaned on each other. And it was never in question that any of us were grieving worse than the other. Each one of us dealt with the horror of losing a parent (and my mother, a spouse,) in our own ways. There were moments of anger, moments of intense pain and emotion, and of course (and more than often,) moments of hysterical laughter when we remembered Dad’s stories he told over and over (and over and over and over.)

Brother never pointed out that he was the one who had, more than any of us, the most reason to mourn. Instead he embraced the pain of each of us, and carried it with him, and made it part of his own. Instead of isolating himself from the rest of us as the single son who’d lost both his mother and father at age 36, he supported all of us, quietly, through his own experience and wisdom, through the mourning of our father figure. To Brother, my father had left behind three children, not just one, and while a widower, he had also left behind a wife.

There are moments that I find myself staring across a room at Brother, surrounded by his wife and adoring little girls and I feel a lump in my throat, and a tear in my eye and a heart swollen with love because I know that it is Brother who made this family work. And now, with Dad gone and Mom moving on with her life, and sisters moving on with theirs, Brother stands as the father figure to more girls than just his little ones. He has become the man of my life. Strong, wise, nurturing, and protective: the man against whom I will measure all others.

Blog, meet Berger

2006-10-11T16:11:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, I went "down the shore" (I feel so Jersey when I say it like that,) with Berger. It was a good time. Saturday night we got pizza and wine, got drunk on the porch and played Mind Trap (good game with too many word problems.) His parents were out to dinner. Then they came home, went to bed, and we fooled around in the bathroom. Very eleventh grade. Hilarious.

Sunday the whole fam went for a sail. It was pretty windy but luckily Berger had brought a fleece with him and was gentlemanly enough to freeze his ass off so I could be toasty.

I was very impressed by his sailing skills - until he attempted to dock and knocked his dad off the boat which was pretty amusing only because Berger Sr. did not suffer a concussion or something worse.

Then we all sat around the deck and ate fajitas and drank Manhattans (have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy being around a gentile family that drinks? My family is such a bunch of sober lamos.)

Berger is a fun dude. Good on car rides (no road rage, stops for BK when I demand it, lets me play with the Sirius radio,) and is also quite a smoocher. Plus, he lets me talk about EF and listens like a friend without getting all weird about the fact that I am talking about an EF. I told him that if things don't work out between the two of us, if neither one of us acts like an asshole, I think we actually could stay friends. I meant it. I think he agreed.

Of course the main obstacle would be that he's so damned delicious I'm not sure I could be around him platonically and not want to get him naked...

Is that a problem?

He's a character of humor, intelligence, and creativity all wrapped up in the body of a J. Crew model. It's enough to make any Jewess forget that he grew up by the cross. Part of his charm.

Of course since the weekend we had a brief conversation on the phone (Berger travels a lot and this week he is navigating his way through yet another small Southern town,) about the future. Big mistake. (Note to self: whenever things are going well in a relationship and you are not ready for them to end even though statistically speaking you know that one day they might, don't bring up the future.)

Berger and I met on a blind date arranged by two sisters about two months ago. Right away I was charmed by his sense of humor, his uncanny ability to quote almost any movie ever made, and his perfect smile that makes the lines around his eyes crease like the guys in the Bloomingdale's catalogue. I'm not sure what he was charmed by. As talkative as he is, he's usually quoting "Caddyshack", telling jokes, or making a good point about politics while I tend to be a little more revealing since it is my belief that you can never dispense too many compliments. It's two months later and he continues to charm me in other ways, usually ones that are unexpected.

I found myself feeling pretty sad today, following our late-night conversation/revelation. I've never met a guy like Berger and find myself strangely torn. Just because I want to put him in my pocket and take him with me everywhere so that I'm assured of having a good time, and just because he makes my knees quiver when he kisses me, and just because he seems to be one of the more quality individuls I've met in this lifetime, doesn't mean it will work, does it? Am I just setting myself up for massive disappointment if it doesn't end now? I should know the answer to this by now, Blog. I am a big girl and have been down this road before. But the romantic in me believes that every relationship, even the ones that appear seemingly doomed from the start, deserves its fair shake if both parties agree there's something worth shaking... I mean, I can't pretend to know what's going to happen on the other side... I guess if I get a post-it from Berger that says "I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me." I'll have my answer.