Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Split Second Decisions
It was bound to happen eventually; as big as New York City is, I find myself constantly running into people I know, whether it's been days, months or years since our last encounter. So even though I was shocked when I walked past my ex-boyfriend yesterday after not seeing him for two years, I couldn't say I was particularly surprised. I had imagined this moment, wondered when and where it would happen, how I would react, how he would respond, what it would feel like. As with most things in life, nothing really prepares you.
I was coming out of the 73rd street subway on Broadway, and a few feet after I exit, there he was, walking past me. Had I not looked up when I did, not been so naturally in tune to the contours of his profile and his gait (yes, even after two years, I remember), I would have continued walking. I touched him lightly on the back of his arm as I called out his name, and when he turned around and smiled broadly upon seeing me, I was terrified. What would he say? Would he stay and talk? Was he happy to see me? Could I hold it together?
He gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek, and said, "Wow, it's been a long time." He couldn't believe it had been two years(for the record, I thought I would be married and with a kid two years after him, but I digress). Apparently, he's working on a project right now on the Upper West Side, my neighborhood. And in all my fantasies and fears of running into him, I didn't imagine these elements: the pouring rain (oh, yeah, the rain made it even more spectacular), the near-miss, a job in my area.
He proceeded to tell me that I "look really good" with a slap-happy grin on his face, told me about his new nephew and how adorable he is, blah, blah, blah. And while we chatted, I was thinking to myself, I've got this. I'm calm, I'm smiley, I'm collected and cool. Who knew? I wasn't on the verge of tears, I didn't want to slap him across the face, I was OK.
Eventually he tells me I'm getting soaked, never mind that I had stopped noticing and couldn't feel it anymore. One more hug and kiss on the cheek. One more huge smile where he tells me how I look realllly good, literally giving me the once over, and I tell him likewise. "It was really good to see you," he said as we part ways. Again. Two years later.
As I walk the six blocks home, I realize I'm shaking. I come out of my daze, going over our encounter in my mind, finally acknowledging that I was soaked from the torrential downpour. What are the chances? Out of 8 million people, why then? Why that particular moment? Why, when i haven't been sad about him in MONTHS, nor even thinking about him, did I just run into him? I've had men since him, and I will have men in the future. Then it hits me. This is the irony of the universe. Just when things are fine, a ball is thrown at your chest, breaking the wounds and causing you to bleed, to reanalyze the relationship and the moment you met, the moment you parted after the "break-up," why it didn't work out, what could have been done differently, all the ruminations that cause these periods to be called heartaches. When I got home, I collapsed into a ball on the floor and sobbed.
I have been kicking myself since yesterday afternoon for not waiting for the 1 train at 42nd street. Had I stayed for that train,which I ALMOST did, instead of taking the 2/3 Express to 72nd, I never would have seen him. Those split-second moments, when we hop on one train and not the next, change our days, weeks and lives. You don't think,"I'll wait for the local, so I don't run into my ex whom I haven't seen for two years." This realization makes me wonder how many other random moments and decisions have prevented me from running into him before yesterday, or any other ex or one-night stand for that matter. I suppose, however, that this is what makes life interesting, even when the wound bleeds again.
If I hadn't looked up when I did through the rain and instantly recognized the familiar outline (which I would recognize anywhere, to be honest), I wouldn't have cried myself to sleep last night, aching for him again after all this time. Nor would I feel angry that I haven't heard from him since. How dare he? He has no right to re enter my life, albeit it was no one's fault. WHY doesn't he want to see me? Why not call, text, grab a drink? I will never know; I only know what I feel. Yes, I have healed from the demise of what was "us," but no, I'm not OK right now. I have relived the pain and hurt I felt two years ago for the past 36 hours. While I was walking in my neighborhood today, I wondered if he recognized the restaurants we would go to while on his job. Has he been reminiscing about our time together, is he eager to walk by my apt, just to be close to me, the way I have been remembering all our moments together? Does it hurt him to be near my presence? Was he excited to find out he'd be working near me, hoping to run into me, or was he indifferent? Did our memories even play through this mind, or was he secretly praying that he wouldn't see me, for whatever reason?
I know this is temporary and that it won't take me nearly as long to heal from this encounter as it did the break-up. I'm a different person than I was, as is he. I will never have the answers to the questions I want, won't know if he was shook up yesterday after seeing me or if he just forgot. Out of sight, out of mind, in typical guy fashion. I won't know if he's been dying to contact me but is ambivalent. Or perhaps he is with someone else and has no desire to relive what we were, even for a moment. At one point in time, we were intimately connected and aware of each other's day by day feelings. Now, he knows nothing of my life, and I know nothing of his.
However, I will say this: I'm happy he noticed how damn good I looked and had to tell me twice. I'm glad he seemed happy, genuinely so, to see me and hugged me tightly, the way I remember he used to whenever we saw each other. Mainly, I'm glad we weren't both in tears like we were two years ago parting by a subway stop, delaying the inevitable. The only difference was the rain. A lot of rain.
Friday, July 30, 2010
No Bridezilla in THIS House
The Wedding is this Sunday, and I don't think it's hit me yet. I'm thinking about my dad a lot, and what this means for my family structure. I will inherit a stepfather, stepsister, stepbrother and two nephews. I'm extremely happy that I have new, lovely members in my family and am thankful that they are normal, grounded people.
Nonetheless, all of the hoopla that leads up to this day has made me miss my dad and his mother, my beloved Grandma Ida, who passed away about a year ago. I think her death is finally beginning to set in. When my dad died, she actually said to me, "Now, I know you won't like what I have to say, but I really hope your mother remarries. She's too young (53) to be alone the rest of her life." I was touched that my grandma was selfless enough to think of her daughter-in-law's happiness despite her unfathomable grief. Therefore, I know that she would have been thrilled to attend this weekend, to see my mom happy and to be around her family.
Naturally, the fact that my mom is getting married before me is a little odd and the strangeness that my MOTHER is getting married PERIOD is a bit trippy. When I tell people about it, their faces light up and say, "Oh that's sooo sweet, that's so nice," especially when they find out she has been a widow. However, it's still a little strange that I've been helping a 63-year-old woman plan her wedding when I'm a single 31-year-old. What can I say, other than that I'm human.
I HAVE learned a lot, though, the past few months. For starters, planning a wedding should be fun. My mom and Shelley have had a great attitude about the event since their engagement back in January. They didn't stress out their children or family, they've been kind and understanding about gifts, and all they really want is for the day to be classy, special and fun. There was no cries of outrage at caterers, no tears about people who hadn't responded quickly enough, no anal conversations with their children about what colors they should be wearing and rarely any display of nerves (except before her dress fitting, as I detailed in my previous blog).
My personal experience has made me lose respect for people (women, especially), who lose their cool over the most inane, insignificant details. No one cares about the wedding as much as the bride (isn't that the truth, though?) so why stress? I can only hope that when it's my turn to go to dress fittings and to find the right hair piece, I can approach these tasks with a grateful and calm mentality. If not, I'll just have my mom do everything.
Nonetheless, all of the hoopla that leads up to this day has made me miss my dad and his mother, my beloved Grandma Ida, who passed away about a year ago. I think her death is finally beginning to set in. When my dad died, she actually said to me, "Now, I know you won't like what I have to say, but I really hope your mother remarries. She's too young (53) to be alone the rest of her life." I was touched that my grandma was selfless enough to think of her daughter-in-law's happiness despite her unfathomable grief. Therefore, I know that she would have been thrilled to attend this weekend, to see my mom happy and to be around her family.
Naturally, the fact that my mom is getting married before me is a little odd and the strangeness that my MOTHER is getting married PERIOD is a bit trippy. When I tell people about it, their faces light up and say, "Oh that's sooo sweet, that's so nice," especially when they find out she has been a widow. However, it's still a little strange that I've been helping a 63-year-old woman plan her wedding when I'm a single 31-year-old. What can I say, other than that I'm human.
I HAVE learned a lot, though, the past few months. For starters, planning a wedding should be fun. My mom and Shelley have had a great attitude about the event since their engagement back in January. They didn't stress out their children or family, they've been kind and understanding about gifts, and all they really want is for the day to be classy, special and fun. There was no cries of outrage at caterers, no tears about people who hadn't responded quickly enough, no anal conversations with their children about what colors they should be wearing and rarely any display of nerves (except before her dress fitting, as I detailed in my previous blog).
My personal experience has made me lose respect for people (women, especially), who lose their cool over the most inane, insignificant details. No one cares about the wedding as much as the bride (isn't that the truth, though?) so why stress? I can only hope that when it's my turn to go to dress fittings and to find the right hair piece, I can approach these tasks with a grateful and calm mentality. If not, I'll just have my mom do everything.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I'm the Mother
Growing up, whenever I was upset with my parents or felt they were being too strict or simply didn't comprehend why they were so concerned about the length of my skirt or the speed at which I drive, they always replied, "You'll understand when you have children." That statement drove me nuts because 1), it meant the conversation was closed, and 2), I didn't really get it.
I still don't have children, but a few years ago, I began to "get it." My mom had a Bat Mitzvah 3 years ago. There was a group of about 7 women from our Synagogue in CT-an adult Bat Mitvah class, if you will. As she walked up to the Bima and started her reading, my hands got sweaty, and I recognized instantly that this must have been what my parents felt like 15 years prior when it was me walking up to read from the Torah. I wanted my mom to do well because she had worked so hard. I wanted her to succeed, to be confident and relaxed because it was important to her, and moreover, because I loved her. In this moment, I began to understand the angst of being a parent and watching your child perform. My mother had become my daughter.
I had a similar experience this past Wednesday at my mom's dress fitting for her wedding. She picked me up at the train station that afternoon in Westport, and the second I got into the car she told me, "I'm sooo stressed. This dress-what if I hate it?" She then went into a five minute diatribe about how fat she would look and how she shouldn't have gotten blue or lace and that it's not sophisticated enough. There was no screaming or cursing--simply a typical bride freaking out repeating over and over, "Suzanne. I'm going to look like a blue blob!" At certain points I thought she was going to burst into tears. I had to call my grandparents to have them calm her down, which was a first for all of us, as those who know my mother can attest to her positive outlook, emotional stability and general "pollyanna-esque" attitude. She rarely freaks out, so this was almost unchartered territory.
Needless to say, she calmed down after the dress was on her (which I told her she would), and she was able to see for herself how exquisitely it fits. The pearl drop earrings and the bracelet looked stunning together and added just the right touch; I have never seen my mom look so pretty. In other words, I was kvelling.
I still found myself taking on the motherly role, though, and easing her fears that "no, it wasn't too tight," and "yes, the shoes look perfect," and "no, the bracelet and earrings don't have to be the exact same color, they look fine as they are," etc. etc (I will post pictures after the wedding).
I have a feeling that my maternal instincts will kick in again several times before the actual rings are exchanged, but truthfully, what are daughters for?
I still don't have children, but a few years ago, I began to "get it." My mom had a Bat Mitzvah 3 years ago. There was a group of about 7 women from our Synagogue in CT-an adult Bat Mitvah class, if you will. As she walked up to the Bima and started her reading, my hands got sweaty, and I recognized instantly that this must have been what my parents felt like 15 years prior when it was me walking up to read from the Torah. I wanted my mom to do well because she had worked so hard. I wanted her to succeed, to be confident and relaxed because it was important to her, and moreover, because I loved her. In this moment, I began to understand the angst of being a parent and watching your child perform. My mother had become my daughter.
I had a similar experience this past Wednesday at my mom's dress fitting for her wedding. She picked me up at the train station that afternoon in Westport, and the second I got into the car she told me, "I'm sooo stressed. This dress-what if I hate it?" She then went into a five minute diatribe about how fat she would look and how she shouldn't have gotten blue or lace and that it's not sophisticated enough. There was no screaming or cursing--simply a typical bride freaking out repeating over and over, "Suzanne. I'm going to look like a blue blob!" At certain points I thought she was going to burst into tears. I had to call my grandparents to have them calm her down, which was a first for all of us, as those who know my mother can attest to her positive outlook, emotional stability and general "pollyanna-esque" attitude. She rarely freaks out, so this was almost unchartered territory.
Needless to say, she calmed down after the dress was on her (which I told her she would), and she was able to see for herself how exquisitely it fits. The pearl drop earrings and the bracelet looked stunning together and added just the right touch; I have never seen my mom look so pretty. In other words, I was kvelling.
I still found myself taking on the motherly role, though, and easing her fears that "no, it wasn't too tight," and "yes, the shoes look perfect," and "no, the bracelet and earrings don't have to be the exact same color, they look fine as they are," etc. etc (I will post pictures after the wedding).
I have a feeling that my maternal instincts will kick in again several times before the actual rings are exchanged, but truthfully, what are daughters for?
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Dress, Part 3
And finally, the dress has been chosen. After laboriously hitting every boutique on the Upper West Side along with 4 different BCBGs and all the various department stores in the tri-state area looking for the purple, rouched, taffetta dress that was shown in my last blog, I found out that it's officially out of stock. But fear not. The dress goddesses intervened, and I came across a one-of-a-kind navy cocktail dress. It's Laundry by Shelli Segal, but I cannot find it anywhere on the internet to post a link for you, my readers. It's not on the Laundry website, nor is it on the Lord and Taylor one, which is where I got it. I am dying to share my find with all of you, but you will have to wait until I can take a picture of it myself.
It's a shiny, navy blue with a strapless, sweetheart top, and the skirt part is layered with what looks like Spanish style fans, only they are upside down. They are relatively small and there are about seven layers of them going all around the skirt portion, which stops about two inches above the knees. According to my mom, it looks like something one would find on the red carpet (sans the famous celebrity wearing it and the $5 million bank account the owner would possess). Needless to say, it's exquisite, it's flattering, it will look lovely next to Sandy's Perriwinkle blue gown, and I will get much use out of it.
Now the shoe hunt begins. Stay tuned. I'm thinkng bone pumps, a la Laboutin, but with Suzanne-friendly prices.
It's a shiny, navy blue with a strapless, sweetheart top, and the skirt part is layered with what looks like Spanish style fans, only they are upside down. They are relatively small and there are about seven layers of them going all around the skirt portion, which stops about two inches above the knees. According to my mom, it looks like something one would find on the red carpet (sans the famous celebrity wearing it and the $5 million bank account the owner would possess). Needless to say, it's exquisite, it's flattering, it will look lovely next to Sandy's Perriwinkle blue gown, and I will get much use out of it.
Now the shoe hunt begins. Stay tuned. I'm thinkng bone pumps, a la Laboutin, but with Suzanne-friendly prices.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Daughter of The Bride: What Should I Wear?
I'm happy to report that my mother may have found a dress. It's not metallic, and she doesn't look like a martian(if you have no idea what I'm referring to, read my previous blog). I haven't actually seen it, but based on her description, I'm thinking this is a more plausible option. It's a perriwinkle blue two-piece--long skirt and and corset-like top that doesn't show cleavage. Apparently, there's some lace on it somewhere, couldn't quite grasp where exactly when she was describing it. I'm still a little hesitant at the idea of seeing a bride in blue, but it's her wedding, not mine, and she's 63, not 23.
Furthermore, I may have found my own dress! I recently popped into BCBG in the Flat Iron District on a lunch break and came across a sexy, classy short dress. Check out the link: http://www.bcbg.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3983491&cp=2769162.2840697&page=3&pageBucket=0&parentPage=family. It's not as short on me as it is on the model, as I'm only 5'0. Otherwise, there's no way the Bride would go for it. Check it out, and let me know your thoughts.
I'm coming home to Westport this Sunday to try on the dress for my mom and to possibly look at others. Unfortunately, the PLUMED SERPENT, the store where she found her delectable, blue delight, is closed for Easter. So we will head to SAKS to see if Sandy finds anything else that tickles her bridal fancy-could do worse than Saks. Wouldn't you agree?
Feel free to send me links and ideas for dresses for my mom or myself or suits for my brother!
Furthermore, I may have found my own dress! I recently popped into BCBG in the Flat Iron District on a lunch break and came across a sexy, classy short dress. Check out the link: http://www.bcbg.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3983491&cp=2769162.2840697&page=3&pageBucket=0&parentPage=family. It's not as short on me as it is on the model, as I'm only 5'0. Otherwise, there's no way the Bride would go for it. Check it out, and let me know your thoughts.
I'm coming home to Westport this Sunday to try on the dress for my mom and to possibly look at others. Unfortunately, the PLUMED SERPENT, the store where she found her delectable, blue delight, is closed for Easter. So we will head to SAKS to see if Sandy finds anything else that tickles her bridal fancy-could do worse than Saks. Wouldn't you agree?
Feel free to send me links and ideas for dresses for my mom or myself or suits for my brother!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Daughter of the Bride: Part One
When my mom told me she got engaged, my first thought was, "My mom is getting married for the second time, and I'm still single." Now don't get me wrong, I'm completely thrilled for her and Shelley, as she has been a widow for 10 years, and couldn't ask for a more lovely man to become my step-father. I'm touched that my mother, who was happily married to my dad for 30 years, has found love again. That alone gives me hope for myself, for it makes me believe in healthy, loving relationships.
Nevertheless, I am envious that my mother is acting like a giddy 18-year-old and smiling profusely when gushing about wedding plans. However, I quickly realized that I been endowed with a huge responsibility; helping her plan the wedding. I am the Maid of Honor, and the Daughter of the Bride, two titles I am embracing. For those of you who have been one or the other, or BOTH, you know that they carry much weight and importance and are crucial to making the bride as happy and content with wedding arrangements as possible.
It's an odd concept (and one I never imagined I would do years ago), to be giving my mom wedding advice, but so far, we've been having a blast. I've decided to chronicle the journey as "daughter of the bride" up until August 1st, the day of the wedding.
My mother came into the city this past weekend, on Sunday, March 14th, to celebrate my birthday which was the day prior and to go shopping for me as a birthday gift. I suggested Loehmann's because we have a superbly keen eye for finding amazing clothes at even more amazing prices. But you know what's even better about finding a great bargain? Watching my mom look for wedding dresses at said "bargain" store.
Yes, readers, my mother, the classy, intelligent Sandra Dressler who always looks good while still wearing age-appropriate clothes, tried to convince me that she should wear a metallic silver wrap-around floor-length dress to her own wedding ceremony and celebration. It looked like tinfoil, a martian's costume, or even something a celebrity would wear to the Grammy's, but NOT something befitting my 63-year-old mother. It was an expensive designer, it was fun, but it was NOT a wedding dress, and I have no desire to be a maid of honor to an alien. Trying it on was rather difficult as we couldn't even figure out how it worked; she kept getting lost in the arms. Go figure.
So that dress is out. I tried on a lovely Nicole Miller, but it was too big, and they didn't have anything smaller. I'm in the process of trying desperately to convince my mom to wear something cream-colored or off-white. She's not interested in a wedding "gown," per se, but let's leave the metallics to trashy celebs.
Nevertheless, I am envious that my mother is acting like a giddy 18-year-old and smiling profusely when gushing about wedding plans. However, I quickly realized that I been endowed with a huge responsibility; helping her plan the wedding. I am the Maid of Honor, and the Daughter of the Bride, two titles I am embracing. For those of you who have been one or the other, or BOTH, you know that they carry much weight and importance and are crucial to making the bride as happy and content with wedding arrangements as possible.
It's an odd concept (and one I never imagined I would do years ago), to be giving my mom wedding advice, but so far, we've been having a blast. I've decided to chronicle the journey as "daughter of the bride" up until August 1st, the day of the wedding.
My mother came into the city this past weekend, on Sunday, March 14th, to celebrate my birthday which was the day prior and to go shopping for me as a birthday gift. I suggested Loehmann's because we have a superbly keen eye for finding amazing clothes at even more amazing prices. But you know what's even better about finding a great bargain? Watching my mom look for wedding dresses at said "bargain" store.
Yes, readers, my mother, the classy, intelligent Sandra Dressler who always looks good while still wearing age-appropriate clothes, tried to convince me that she should wear a metallic silver wrap-around floor-length dress to her own wedding ceremony and celebration. It looked like tinfoil, a martian's costume, or even something a celebrity would wear to the Grammy's, but NOT something befitting my 63-year-old mother. It was an expensive designer, it was fun, but it was NOT a wedding dress, and I have no desire to be a maid of honor to an alien. Trying it on was rather difficult as we couldn't even figure out how it worked; she kept getting lost in the arms. Go figure.
So that dress is out. I tried on a lovely Nicole Miller, but it was too big, and they didn't have anything smaller. I'm in the process of trying desperately to convince my mom to wear something cream-colored or off-white. She's not interested in a wedding "gown," per se, but let's leave the metallics to trashy celebs.
Friday, February 19, 2010
To Match or not to Match: An Inside Look at Internet Dating
In my personal experience, there does not seem to be a middle ground with regard to online dating—it either works, or it doesn’t. I have never heard someone say, “Well, I didn’t meet anyone special on Match.com, but it was an enriching experience, nonetheless, and I’m so glad I took the risk,” and I doubt I ever will. And yet, if I know it’s a frustrating process and there’s an excellent chance I will not meet the man I’m going to marry, why have I spent the money to join?
I truly believe in the theory that dating is a numbers game. The more one puts him or herself on the “scene,” the greater the chance of clicking with someone. And the sheer design of many internet dating sites does get one’s picture/profile in front of many people. I have been a member of both Match.com and Jdate (the Jewish dating site), and they allow their members to browse through as many profiles as they wish. There is no rigid format for contact, and I’ve been able to email or send casual “flirts” (corny, quirky come-ons that are concocted by the staff) to as many men as I want at any time. What I’ve liked about these sites is that I’m in control of how I want to go about talking to someone and/or meeting him.
Ironically enough, however, the benefits of being able to contact anyone you like can also be a drawback. There seems to be a general consensus among Edaters that rarely do the people we contact and write to write us back. No matter how much you connect with someone on paper, regardless of whether or not you meet each others’ height requirements and other inane physical attributes, and even if you have both just completed Dante’s Inferno and are looking to have a reading group duet, when you throw the stone do not expect a dent on the other party’s computer screen. This “rejection” can feel unbearably frustrating and rather mind-blowing considering how perfect you may seem for each other (even though the two of you have never actually met, and for all you know, may have even been conversing with a 10 year-old in Alaska who’s an internet prodigy).
On the flip side, there have been men who have written me who are grossly inappropriate with their behavior and/or compatibility. I received an email from a man on Match once complimenting my photos and then asking me if I shaved my ARMPITS because he found women with armpit hair SEXY. Deleted! I later found out that a friend of mine who was matching as well received a similar email from the same person. I am not making this up, folks.
Not surprisingly, the best dating advice I ever received was from my mom. She is a beautiful, intelligent middle-aged widow of ten years and met her current beau, my future stepdad, on Jdate. He is a fantastic man, but she dated many men over the years until she found the right person and always gave me an interesting perspective on the Edating scene. In reality, she has high standards for men, as do I, but she always ventured a chance with anyone who met her minimal age, height (she’s tall) and education requirements—as long as the man didn’t look like a serial killer. She never even bothered to read what they wrote since she felt most of it was made-up to sound good anyway. “Don’t get excited until you actually meet the guy, Suzanne,” she would always tell me (I learned this truth the hard way). Meeting in-person is the way to go, as long as a phone call goes reasonably well. Of course, there was a guy who told her he was living in a small rented room cluttered with his collection of electric trains. He never even got to go on a coffee date with her.
Speaking of oddballs, about a year ago, a close friend of mine started receiving bizarre emails from an older man on Jdate. She told him she wasn’t interested, but he kept writing her messages with explicit, sexual comments. When she began ignoring him, his friend actually had the gall to contact her and plead with her to give him a chance. I encouraged her to report them, and I believe she did, and that was the end of it, but it was a disturbing experience and led to her canceling her subscription.
Now don’t get me wrong--most people are not this crazy and weird. There are not many middle-aged men who live in rooms surrounded by electronic trains, and most women and men I know who have joined these sites are not harassed. I actually HAVE met many lovely people online, even if it didn’t lead to anything long-term, and I’ve had sweet, respectful, thoughtful men reach out to me.
Nonetheless, internet dating can be very stressful, so if you aren’t interested in belonging to a site where your information is open to hundreds of people, EHarmony could be a good way to go. Personally, I have never tried it, but I have friends who have, and they seem to like the fact that there is someone in the Ethersphere doing the work to set them up. This design diminishes the chance of harassment and annoying, persistent emails and IMs.
Please keep in mind that whatever site works best for you, even if it’s not one mentioned here, for there are many, people are not profiles. Chemistry on paper, via the phone or through emails does not necessarily guarantee chemistry in person, hence my mother’s encouragement to hold out on all wedding plans until you have face to face contact. And conversely, if someone is shy over the phone or doesn’t have the most attractive picture posted, he or she may be quite good-looking and extroverted in person. The simple truth is that one never knows. You don’t know until you meet someone if there is you weren’t warned.TRULY a connection. Don’t be too hasty to dismiss anybody nor should you base your interest on looks or “annual income” alone; we all know that’s a tiny part of any lasting relationship anyway. What people write is inconsequential, for it may not even be truthful.
Will you meet your next boyfriend online? Is your future wife swimming through the internet dating pool as you’re reading this? Maybe, maybe not. I know people with horror stories and ones who are madly in love with partners they met through an internet dating site. It’s worth the money to try. But if a man emails you that he’s attracted to women who don’t shave their pits, or if someone IMs you at 12 a.m. whom you have never met and wants to come over in his pajamas for a slumber party, don’t say you weren't warned.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Dawson-Boyd
It's time for a Seuss update. This past week was a true mid-west adventure. Three long travel days through Ohio, Wisconsin, et al, landing us in St. Paul, Minnesota on Wednesday night. I hadn't been west (REALLY west) in a while so it was a reminder to me of how progressive the east coast is. However, this part of the country has a certain charm and a definite calm one doesn't get in New York. Perhaps it's a result of miles upon miles of farmland and cows. Who knows?
Moreover, I will say that Super 8s are actually quite decent and accomodating "hotels," and Starbucks has become quite popular among many Highway rest areas (though not in Iowa, but that's no surprise).
However, the best part of this week for me has been our travels through and in Minnesota. Wednesday night, in Minneapolis, we checked out a yummy Italian restaurant called Lorino Pasta Bar, which I highly recommend. The restaurant has a massive Saloon feeling and sports a metropolitan, western, kitchy and creative ambiance. And fantastic food, which is a nice bonus. Afterwards, our cast mate and dance captain took us on a driving tour through the city. The only bad part of Minneapolis was that we weren't there for more than a day.
After our performance on Thursday morning we hit the road toward Dawson, MN but had to stay overnight in the middle of farmland. Literally. At various times throughout this drive, I felt as if I were in a horror film. It was slightly scary and rather exhilarating at the same time. THIS was it; REAL American farmland. The middle of the country, as far from the daily stress of New York as one could get. There was nowhere to get food that night except a random grocery store around the corner. I got yogurt and cottage cheese.
So, the next morning we embark to Dawson, MN to perform at a school, which I believe was a middle school and a high school. The students and adults at the school were beyond lovely and helpful and excited to have us. The drama department teenagers told us it was the best show they have ever seen (which was flattering and weird at the same time). Apparently the town of Dawson has about 1500 people and the one next to it, Boyd, has about 5 or 600, so they were combined to make Dawson-Boyd.
There was an adorable coffee shop on the main strip, a street that appeared to me to have popped out of Waiting for Guffman. I couldn't have been happier. The rain made the whole experience magical. I felt cozy, at peace and had amazing chili at the diner.
Upon leaving this town we traveled to Okoboji, IA, which was boring enough, but there was a Super Wal-Mart across the street which made us all ecstatic. Unless, one has experienced a Wal- Mart with a food section in the middle of America, there's no point in getting into detail. It's simply religious and inspiring.
We are currently in Waukegan, IL. Traveled here yesterday and have had the day off today. Unfortunately, I went to the doctor today to find out that I have laryngitis. I spent half my day off at a clinic, but I got to read my trashy romance novel which is AMAZING, so it made the waiting around more bearable.
We perform tomorrow morning at the Genesee Theatre here in Waukegan and then head into Hyde Park, Chicago. I'm excited to go to the aquarium and the Art Institute this week. Fish and paintings--what could be better?
Moreover, I will say that Super 8s are actually quite decent and accomodating "hotels," and Starbucks has become quite popular among many Highway rest areas (though not in Iowa, but that's no surprise).
However, the best part of this week for me has been our travels through and in Minnesota. Wednesday night, in Minneapolis, we checked out a yummy Italian restaurant called Lorino Pasta Bar, which I highly recommend. The restaurant has a massive Saloon feeling and sports a metropolitan, western, kitchy and creative ambiance. And fantastic food, which is a nice bonus. Afterwards, our cast mate and dance captain took us on a driving tour through the city. The only bad part of Minneapolis was that we weren't there for more than a day.
After our performance on Thursday morning we hit the road toward Dawson, MN but had to stay overnight in the middle of farmland. Literally. At various times throughout this drive, I felt as if I were in a horror film. It was slightly scary and rather exhilarating at the same time. THIS was it; REAL American farmland. The middle of the country, as far from the daily stress of New York as one could get. There was nowhere to get food that night except a random grocery store around the corner. I got yogurt and cottage cheese.
So, the next morning we embark to Dawson, MN to perform at a school, which I believe was a middle school and a high school. The students and adults at the school were beyond lovely and helpful and excited to have us. The drama department teenagers told us it was the best show they have ever seen (which was flattering and weird at the same time). Apparently the town of Dawson has about 1500 people and the one next to it, Boyd, has about 5 or 600, so they were combined to make Dawson-Boyd.
There was an adorable coffee shop on the main strip, a street that appeared to me to have popped out of Waiting for Guffman. I couldn't have been happier. The rain made the whole experience magical. I felt cozy, at peace and had amazing chili at the diner.
Upon leaving this town we traveled to Okoboji, IA, which was boring enough, but there was a Super Wal-Mart across the street which made us all ecstatic. Unless, one has experienced a Wal- Mart with a food section in the middle of America, there's no point in getting into detail. It's simply religious and inspiring.
We are currently in Waukegan, IL. Traveled here yesterday and have had the day off today. Unfortunately, I went to the doctor today to find out that I have laryngitis. I spent half my day off at a clinic, but I got to read my trashy romance novel which is AMAZING, so it made the waiting around more bearable.
We perform tomorrow morning at the Genesee Theatre here in Waukegan and then head into Hyde Park, Chicago. I'm excited to go to the aquarium and the Art Institute this week. Fish and paintings--what could be better?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Seuss on the Loose
I should have started my tour blog a few weeks ago, but better late than never! We are in the third week of the Seussical the Musical tour and so far, there are some pretty funny stories to relate!
For starters, kids are ridiculous. At an elementary school in Maryland, the stage in the gym was too small for our show so we performed on the gym floor. The front row was pre-k, and I just couldn't stop laughing at their faces. At one moment there was an adorable little boy imitating the monkeys with his arms. I can't remember what it's like to be a child absorbing a show at that age. I wonder what they understand, what their eyes are drawn to and why. Are they transfixed on my purple tights and green leopard skort or are they really rooting for Horton to fall in love with Gertrude?
My fondest memory of the younger species thus far has been at another location in MD where there were a pair of what appeared to be 3 year-olds sitting in the front row with orange t-shirts; one said Thing 1, the other Thing 2. I couldn't resist glimpsing at them every chance I got. They were so attentive and didn't move for the entire hour. I can't even do that at a show.
I haven't toured in a few years, but there are some things that just don't change. EVERYTHING is cheaper outside of the greater NY area. Yogurts are still 50 cents in random supermarkets across the country. The Hometown Restaurant in the middle of Pennsylvania has six dollar wraps, including fries. Mr. G's restaurant near White River Junction, VT was barely populated until our cast entered, and yet, they were still slow as a turtle with service, but cheap, and the food was still good, surprisingly enough.
I'm sure you will all be happy to know that white trash America still exists and is, for better or worse, still populating and thriving; especially at Econolodges and Quality Inns.
Most amusing, though, is my experience at a gas station in VA. I was inside the market at the register and a low life guy with gold teeth and tattoos all over his arms wanted to get together with me. I was friendly enough and was bordering between exasperation and laughing in his face when he asked if he could give me his number. I said ok, and made a mad dash to the van, where apparently, the cast thought I was trying to give HIM my number. This is how rumors get started.
Tune in soon for more updates and anecdotes from the road!!!!
Friday, September 18, 2009
A Tragic Beginning to a Happy New Year
I was very touched this morning to read the following, from cnn.com:
The family of Le's fiance, Jonathan Widawsky, released a statement Thursday through their synagogue, Temple Beth El in Huntington, New York.
"We share in the grief of the family of Annie Le and are, collectively, doing our best to deal with our tragic loss," the statement said. "... We want to thank all those who have been involved in our preparations for a wedding that was not to be for their quiet understanding."
The Widawskys said they will not be attending religious services in the future "in order to facilitate the safety, security and sensitivity of High Holiday services at our temple ... it is a difficult time, and we ask that you allow our fellow congregants, in this holiest of seasons, to pray in peace. And we ask that you pray for the soul of Annie Le, and for healing, for her family, for Jonathan and for our family."
The family requested privacy "for the moment," but added, "Annie will live in our hearts forever."
Cantor Sandra Sherry forwarded the statement to media outlets, noting that "we are entering our holiest season from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur, known as the Days of Awe."
Sherry said she would have officiated at Le and Widawsky's wedding.
As a Jew, I find something very ironic, poignant and bittersweet about these statements and the timing of Ms. Le's murder. As the cantor from Temple Beth El stated, these holidays are the most reverent in the Jewish calendar. They encourage reflection, introspection, repentance. And because of the nature of the New Year (Rosh Hashanah) and the Day of Atonement (Yom Kippur), I have, in the past, focused mainly on myself, how to be happier, how to achieve my goals, how to be a better daughter and be nicer to my brother.
However, I never seem to focus on compassion. Being a good person is different. Most of us strive to the "right" thing by society's standards, but true compassion comes from within someone's soul and is a gift. It is the desire to not want others to suffer the way we have because we can feel their pain.
I consider myself a deeply compassionate and sensitive person. Nevertheless, during the High Holidays for some reason, those traits aren't at the forefront in my mind. My mind is counting the minutes until I leave the synagogue, checking off people in my mind that I should be nicer to this year, and honestly, trying not to fall asleep (though plenty around me already are).
The recent murder at Yale has made me feel that perhaps we have it wrong. It's not only about asking God for forgiveness and atoning for our "sins, or fasting on Yom Kippur to purify our souls, but rather, doing right by others. Keeping the tragedy of someone else's life in our hearts, even if that person is a complete stranger. Compassion resonates deep within our souls, and truly makes us better people, while Making a checklist of our sins doesn't make us better people, and our lists are often forgotten as quickly as we make them.
My heart lies with the family of Annie Le and Jonathan Widawsky. Like his own congregation, I will be praying for his peace of mind, happiness and strength and for that of his fiance's family. I don't know him or his family and had never met Le or her family either. Nor do I know anyone who has, and yet, I feel obligated to remember and honor their grief. To me, that is more important than my own wrongdoings. These two families are suffering more than anyone deserves. What right do I have to focus on my own flaws, when others are experiencing the unthinkable.
It is not a Shana Tova for the family of Jonathan Widawsky or Annie Le.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
We Bit the Apple, after all
Oh, Michelle Obama. Even you, with your grace, intelligence, class and ethics cannot escape the shallowness that comprises our media. Never mind your work on education, never mind your eloquent nature or your Harvard and Princeton degrees, not to mention your desire to put your family first. You wore shorts getting off Air Force One. It's over. Hide yourself in a cave for the next few years, and don't emerge unless you're wearing a black suit.
Perhaps the most distressing aspect of the criticism that The First Lady is receiving for her wardrobe choice on Monday is that she's receiving criticism. She did not overstep her boundaries as the President's wife by being rude to a foreign diplomat. She wasn't seen spanking her children in public. She wore modest shorts in extreme heat. Nevertheless, the buzz this has caused is indicative of how NOT far we have come in women's lib.
We live in a male society. Women still have to fight for the same salaries, we still get criticized if we are moms AND work full time, and god forbid, we should show off our figures on the street or anywhere in public for that matter; any inappropriate comment we face or leering male eyes are our own fault. We should have known better. Men are weak, they can't control themselves, etc, etc. Who knows where this sexism really originated. It doesn't help that the basis of the oldest story in the world revolves around a woman bringing down a man by ignoring the word of God. Whether one believes in the bible or not is irrelevant---that story has founded the idea that a woman is a seductress, tread carefully.
I was always disturbed by how much Hilary Clinton was criticized for her wardrobe choices. Here was a woman who changed the role of the First Lady. She was active, brilliant, outspoken and took risks. Still is. And for this, she was labeled a bitch with no fashion sense (Even though she didn't leave her husband during the sex scandal). And here comes Michelle Obama who DOES have a sophisticated sense of fashion who pushes the envelope (supposedly) by wearing shorts and is criticized for it. The President is not and never will be faced with that issue. He is a man. After all, it doesn't matter what he wears, it matters what he does.
I have no suggestions as to how we, as a modern society and country, can rectify the focus on women's bodies and how they dress. It's more than just a vapid media obsession. It's a deeper, unsettling sign that women haven't reached equality; we are still seen, too often, as nothing more than sex objects, regardless of how devoted we are to our own families, whether its our children or our parents, regardless of how much we support our spouses and/or work for the betterment and advancement of society.
If the focus on Michelle's shorts weren't so funny, it would be pathetic.
Perhaps the most distressing aspect of the criticism that The First Lady is receiving for her wardrobe choice on Monday is that she's receiving criticism. She did not overstep her boundaries as the President's wife by being rude to a foreign diplomat. She wasn't seen spanking her children in public. She wore modest shorts in extreme heat. Nevertheless, the buzz this has caused is indicative of how NOT far we have come in women's lib.
We live in a male society. Women still have to fight for the same salaries, we still get criticized if we are moms AND work full time, and god forbid, we should show off our figures on the street or anywhere in public for that matter; any inappropriate comment we face or leering male eyes are our own fault. We should have known better. Men are weak, they can't control themselves, etc, etc. Who knows where this sexism really originated. It doesn't help that the basis of the oldest story in the world revolves around a woman bringing down a man by ignoring the word of God. Whether one believes in the bible or not is irrelevant---that story has founded the idea that a woman is a seductress, tread carefully.
I was always disturbed by how much Hilary Clinton was criticized for her wardrobe choices. Here was a woman who changed the role of the First Lady. She was active, brilliant, outspoken and took risks. Still is. And for this, she was labeled a bitch with no fashion sense (Even though she didn't leave her husband during the sex scandal). And here comes Michelle Obama who DOES have a sophisticated sense of fashion who pushes the envelope (supposedly) by wearing shorts and is criticized for it. The President is not and never will be faced with that issue. He is a man. After all, it doesn't matter what he wears, it matters what he does.
I have no suggestions as to how we, as a modern society and country, can rectify the focus on women's bodies and how they dress. It's more than just a vapid media obsession. It's a deeper, unsettling sign that women haven't reached equality; we are still seen, too often, as nothing more than sex objects, regardless of how devoted we are to our own families, whether its our children or our parents, regardless of how much we support our spouses and/or work for the betterment and advancement of society.
If the focus on Michelle's shorts weren't so funny, it would be pathetic.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Alexander
I'm staring where we had our first true encounter. You stare back, understanding more of me than I know exists. I'm trying to ignore it, but you're reading my thoughts, making me blush. A quick rush of blood travels from my legs up to my neck and face, exposing the pounding in my chest. You smile.
I'm staring at the booth where first we kissed, four months ago. Your warm, sensual lips brush mine timidly, then deeply, then yearning for more, we embrace closer, my body shivering from nerves, your hot arms and mouth steadying me.
I'm sitting on the couch where we groped each other until we couldn't see straight. I remember what you wore. I remember how it came off. I remember how you looked at me adoringly. I remember how bold you were. I loved how your hair got messy.
I lie on the sheets that you wrapped me in, pulling me toward you as if every night we spent together would be the last, not knowing the last was already waiting at the door. Your hand asks for mine while you interlace your large fingers with my tiny ones. I have never felt more protected as you whisper to me, "I love this." You are a furnace warming up my cold body, as if we were meant to hold one another. I fit perfectly inside you, never able to get close enough. The closest, most intimate moments are never close enough. The further you go, the more I ache for you.
My head is on the pillow. I'm lying on my side staring at you hazily. I'm half asleep. You are next to me, facing me, on your side. Your hand is stroking my cheek, your thumb caressing under my eyes. I'm confused by your comfort and love, not really awake, not knowing if it's actually happening, smiling when I realize it is. I ask you if you're thinking how pretty I am. Yes, you reply softly with a slight nod and smile.
And now I'm on the corner. We don't want to say goodbye. It has to be this way, you tell me. What else is there to do? I'm hugging you, trying to memorize the feel of your back and your bones and your waist underneath my arms and hands. I'm holding the memory of us in this embrace. Maybe this outline will make every other reality go away. If I hold you tight enough, we can freeze time, or change it, or create our own. But you pull me away gently and brush away my tears with your fingers. We kiss quietly. I pull away from you, afraid to stay in this shape any longer, afraid that the mere intimacy will make me break and paralyze me. I turn and walk to the steps leading down to the subway. I quickly turn back to you, tell you I'll talk to you soon, and I watch you slowly raise your hand to your lips and blow me a kiss.
I can't even remember the train ride home.
I'm staring at the booth where first we kissed, four months ago. Your warm, sensual lips brush mine timidly, then deeply, then yearning for more, we embrace closer, my body shivering from nerves, your hot arms and mouth steadying me.
I'm sitting on the couch where we groped each other until we couldn't see straight. I remember what you wore. I remember how it came off. I remember how you looked at me adoringly. I remember how bold you were. I loved how your hair got messy.
I lie on the sheets that you wrapped me in, pulling me toward you as if every night we spent together would be the last, not knowing the last was already waiting at the door. Your hand asks for mine while you interlace your large fingers with my tiny ones. I have never felt more protected as you whisper to me, "I love this." You are a furnace warming up my cold body, as if we were meant to hold one another. I fit perfectly inside you, never able to get close enough. The closest, most intimate moments are never close enough. The further you go, the more I ache for you.
My head is on the pillow. I'm lying on my side staring at you hazily. I'm half asleep. You are next to me, facing me, on your side. Your hand is stroking my cheek, your thumb caressing under my eyes. I'm confused by your comfort and love, not really awake, not knowing if it's actually happening, smiling when I realize it is. I ask you if you're thinking how pretty I am. Yes, you reply softly with a slight nod and smile.
And now I'm on the corner. We don't want to say goodbye. It has to be this way, you tell me. What else is there to do? I'm hugging you, trying to memorize the feel of your back and your bones and your waist underneath my arms and hands. I'm holding the memory of us in this embrace. Maybe this outline will make every other reality go away. If I hold you tight enough, we can freeze time, or change it, or create our own. But you pull me away gently and brush away my tears with your fingers. We kiss quietly. I pull away from you, afraid to stay in this shape any longer, afraid that the mere intimacy will make me break and paralyze me. I turn and walk to the steps leading down to the subway. I quickly turn back to you, tell you I'll talk to you soon, and I watch you slowly raise your hand to your lips and blow me a kiss.
I can't even remember the train ride home.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Singing in the Rain
So I don't think anyone was happy today in NYC. The weather was stressful--rainy, windy and chilly. Clothes were dripping wet, facebook stati ranged from "the weather sucks" to "I'm staying in all day due to the rain...", and it was raining so bad at one point, that my bathroom was getting wet simply from having the window slightly ajar. Lovely.
Normally, I dread leaving my apartment when it's pouring, and I've had the worst luck with umbrellas. I hate them. They are inconvenient, they get in the way of everything and everyone on the streets of the city, and any decent sized, strong umbrella is about the length of my body. Moreover, I lose almost every one I buy, and if I don't lose them, I wind up throwing them out because they are cheap, so they are made poorly and can't withstand the wind. Sometimes, I feel like Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins on a rainy day, ready to get swept away by my cheap, 3 dollar purchase, only instead of a carpet bag I'm carrying a ten year old Le Sport Sac tote.
Recently, however, I received a fabulous umbrella from my friend Lindsay as a thank-you for being in her wedding party. It was one of the most brilliant gifts I've ever gotten. It's the dome-shaped type, as if you are holding up an egg and cut off the bottom part.
It's clear plastic all around because it covers my entire face, and there are large, blue raindrops painted around the entire edge.
For the first time in my life I'm not afraid of getting wet! My hair stays dry! People look at the umbrella and smile at its cuteness! I find myself looking at my fellow New Yorkers and pitying their cheap little black ones that flip inside-out due to the wind. Oh, if only they were blessed with my gift! If only they knew the beauty of the dome umbrella! Not only does it cover my face AND my glasses so they don't fog up, not only does it keep my curls from frizzing, but it's completely impervious to the wind. I feel confident that I won't fly away because of high winds, and I know my umbrella will last for a looonnnngggg time. Today, I imagined myself twirling it around me on the sidewalk, a la Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. That's how happy my gadget made me. It's the little things in life, people.
Normally, I dread leaving my apartment when it's pouring, and I've had the worst luck with umbrellas. I hate them. They are inconvenient, they get in the way of everything and everyone on the streets of the city, and any decent sized, strong umbrella is about the length of my body. Moreover, I lose almost every one I buy, and if I don't lose them, I wind up throwing them out because they are cheap, so they are made poorly and can't withstand the wind. Sometimes, I feel like Julie Andrews in Mary Poppins on a rainy day, ready to get swept away by my cheap, 3 dollar purchase, only instead of a carpet bag I'm carrying a ten year old Le Sport Sac tote.
Recently, however, I received a fabulous umbrella from my friend Lindsay as a thank-you for being in her wedding party. It was one of the most brilliant gifts I've ever gotten. It's the dome-shaped type, as if you are holding up an egg and cut off the bottom part.
It's clear plastic all around because it covers my entire face, and there are large, blue raindrops painted around the entire edge. For the first time in my life I'm not afraid of getting wet! My hair stays dry! People look at the umbrella and smile at its cuteness! I find myself looking at my fellow New Yorkers and pitying their cheap little black ones that flip inside-out due to the wind. Oh, if only they were blessed with my gift! If only they knew the beauty of the dome umbrella! Not only does it cover my face AND my glasses so they don't fog up, not only does it keep my curls from frizzing, but it's completely impervious to the wind. I feel confident that I won't fly away because of high winds, and I know my umbrella will last for a looonnnngggg time. Today, I imagined myself twirling it around me on the sidewalk, a la Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. That's how happy my gadget made me. It's the little things in life, people.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Your Child Isn't Mine
It never ceases to amaze me how amazing the staff is at the Starbucks on the corner of 81st and Broadway. I go there almost every day, and they are consistently friendly, patient and bend over backwards to make their customers happy. This is why I insist on making my daily visits, and yet, these daily drop-ins have enabled me to see how obnoxious the customers are in my neighborhood. I absolutely love living on the UWS but wish that spoiled rich people had their own burrough.
Let's start with the loud teenage girls who wear $200 Tory Birch flats and tote around their IPhones in Coach and Marc Jacobs bags. Is it really necessary to twirl your hair, talk loudly and make fun of other customers loud enough for the bankers at Chase to hear 2 blocks away? No, actually, surprisingly enough, you can keep the customers and the whole neighborhood perfectly content if you are respectful and speak with a normal, human tone using normal phrases. I for one, don't want my yearning for Iced Tea or a blueberry scone spoiled by a squealing conversation about Facebook updates and graduation hook-ups.
As if their presence isn't annoying enough, let's move on to the moms and their young children and newborns. Okay, here's the deal: the kids can be really cute. The babies are often cuter. The strollers are even more beautiful and probably cost more than my rent. However, none of this gives moms, and I say moms because the dads are often more aware of their surroundings, the right to be rude to other people. It doesn't take much to thank someone for holding the door open for your huge Baby Bjorn (me), nor is it rocket science to move your stroller out of the way when I walk over to get my drink from the counter. Just because your stroller takes up half the space of the floor area doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to maneuver my way to get milk and splenda. It's not my fault you're schlepping around a device 3 times the size of your kid. Be courteous, please.
Perhaps the worst thing about the parent/child phenomenon at this particular location is the complete negligence of teaching a young child manners. Here's a true story. I was on line once and a young boy was in front of me with his mom. He kept backing up into me to point to the food he wanted in the display case (the line ran parallel to the counter), and I mean LITERALLY you would think we were joined at the hip. It was so annoying that I had to fight from saying something to him, but eventually I just had to ask him to stop. HOWEVER, even though his mother could clearly see that he was annoying me, as it would bother anyone in the same position, she never asked him to be aware of his surroundings or to simply stop. It was as if I were invisible. News flash lady: YOUR CHILD ISN'T MINE.
However, I would never blame the child in a scenario like this one, as frustrated as I may get. He didn't know any better and wasn't trying to bother me--he couldn't have been more than six. I was pissed at the adult. Why she didn't try to take the opportunity to teach her son manners and appropriate behavior is beyond my comprehension. Unfortunately, this happens all too often, especially with wealthier families. At least in my neighborhood. There, I said it.
I know that those of you with children are going to roll your eyes at me and tell me I don't understand how stressful it can be to be a parent and how strollers are heavy and children are often uncontrollable at young ages. I would not disagree. In fact, I am sure when I have kids, because I DO adore children, I will be dealing with all of these stresses and more. The difference is that I will not let my child run into people on a crowded line in a New York City Starbucks and shout the name of the pastry he wants. Nor would I expect someone walking by me to go out of his or her way to avoid my stroller, because, God forbid, I should be just as considerate.
Let's start with the loud teenage girls who wear $200 Tory Birch flats and tote around their IPhones in Coach and Marc Jacobs bags. Is it really necessary to twirl your hair, talk loudly and make fun of other customers loud enough for the bankers at Chase to hear 2 blocks away? No, actually, surprisingly enough, you can keep the customers and the whole neighborhood perfectly content if you are respectful and speak with a normal, human tone using normal phrases. I for one, don't want my yearning for Iced Tea or a blueberry scone spoiled by a squealing conversation about Facebook updates and graduation hook-ups.
As if their presence isn't annoying enough, let's move on to the moms and their young children and newborns. Okay, here's the deal: the kids can be really cute. The babies are often cuter. The strollers are even more beautiful and probably cost more than my rent. However, none of this gives moms, and I say moms because the dads are often more aware of their surroundings, the right to be rude to other people. It doesn't take much to thank someone for holding the door open for your huge Baby Bjorn (me), nor is it rocket science to move your stroller out of the way when I walk over to get my drink from the counter. Just because your stroller takes up half the space of the floor area doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to maneuver my way to get milk and splenda. It's not my fault you're schlepping around a device 3 times the size of your kid. Be courteous, please.
Perhaps the worst thing about the parent/child phenomenon at this particular location is the complete negligence of teaching a young child manners. Here's a true story. I was on line once and a young boy was in front of me with his mom. He kept backing up into me to point to the food he wanted in the display case (the line ran parallel to the counter), and I mean LITERALLY you would think we were joined at the hip. It was so annoying that I had to fight from saying something to him, but eventually I just had to ask him to stop. HOWEVER, even though his mother could clearly see that he was annoying me, as it would bother anyone in the same position, she never asked him to be aware of his surroundings or to simply stop. It was as if I were invisible. News flash lady: YOUR CHILD ISN'T MINE.
However, I would never blame the child in a scenario like this one, as frustrated as I may get. He didn't know any better and wasn't trying to bother me--he couldn't have been more than six. I was pissed at the adult. Why she didn't try to take the opportunity to teach her son manners and appropriate behavior is beyond my comprehension. Unfortunately, this happens all too often, especially with wealthier families. At least in my neighborhood. There, I said it.
I know that those of you with children are going to roll your eyes at me and tell me I don't understand how stressful it can be to be a parent and how strollers are heavy and children are often uncontrollable at young ages. I would not disagree. In fact, I am sure when I have kids, because I DO adore children, I will be dealing with all of these stresses and more. The difference is that I will not let my child run into people on a crowded line in a New York City Starbucks and shout the name of the pastry he wants. Nor would I expect someone walking by me to go out of his or her way to avoid my stroller, because, God forbid, I should be just as considerate.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Famous for what????
I get it. Socialites like Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton are famous for their names. They don't need to "sing" even though they do, much to our horror, nor do they have to have their own perfume to maintain their notoriety. But their widespread popularity has always had me thinking, WHY are we obsessed with talentless, braindead individuals who contribute to society by keeping designers in the spotlight.
Take the whole, recent Gosselins phenomenon. Granted, it's interesting to watch how a couple raises 8 children and fascinating to wonder how a woman can maintain a pregnancy that delivers six healthy babies. Beyond the show, though? The ONLY newsworthy tidbit of the whole he slept with/she slept with debacle is that it's newsworthy.
Why are we obsessed with other peoples' lives, strangers we don't know who don't provide us with anything substantial, aside from ridiculous entertainment? Most of these shows are scripted and edited to look more exciting and dramatic than they are. Additionally, most people come across as morons (Housewives of Orange County? Or how about that old NYC based ludicrousness called The Gastaneau Girls....plastic mother and daughter living their Upper East Side, shallow lives?)
On the flip side, there are shows with average Americans living in average towns, and perhaps that's where the popularity of reality tv sets in. It's alluring to watch other families and "normal" people get spotlight and fame. If it happens to them, surely, it can happen to me? Let's not forget the other voice going off in our heads. Just like a soap opera, their lives are worse than mine.
Kate Gosselin told People magazine, "I don't know that we're in the same place anymore, that we want the same thing." Now THAT is amazing!!!!! How could anyone feel that way about a marriage? How could anyone cheat and be confused about his or her spouse and raising eight kids? Truly groundbreaking interview, folks. I have no ill will toward her, don't get me wrong. I feel sad for her that her life has been thrown into the public eye in such a degrading, embarrassing way, not to mention that her husband is a total ass for thinking that his affair could be kept from the public or his kids. He's a selfish prick. I'm sure she's under a tremendous amount of stress anyway dealing with a large family, and now this. It must suck.
However, I do blame the media. People feels the need to publish this? This is the same level as the death of Natasha Richardson, a beloved stage and screen actress who did good work for society? I believe reality television cheapens people. Women look like bimbos (Housewives). Men look like schmucks (The Bachelor). HORRID singers and dancers get televised and applauded. Moreover, as a society we soak it up like pathetic amoebas.
I'm fully aware that it's entertainment, not to mention reality shows are cheaper to produce so their presence is conducive to a bad economy. But I, for one, learn nothing from them. I never gave two shits about Paris and Nicole's old feud, nor have I ever cared about them when their bizarre "show" was being aired. It's not very smart to parade them on magazines, either. They are hardly acceptable role models for young women, but then again, how many socialites are? The only one I can think of is Ivanka Trump, or whatever her name is. At least she is educated and works. Hopefully, she won't follow in dad's footsteps and start some insipid apprentice garbage. (Plus, her father's plastic surgery was always too distracting for me--I could never watch an hour of his immovable face. Let's get real.) Maybe she already has. I wouldn't know. I don't watch those types of shows.
Take the whole, recent Gosselins phenomenon. Granted, it's interesting to watch how a couple raises 8 children and fascinating to wonder how a woman can maintain a pregnancy that delivers six healthy babies. Beyond the show, though? The ONLY newsworthy tidbit of the whole he slept with/she slept with debacle is that it's newsworthy.
Why are we obsessed with other peoples' lives, strangers we don't know who don't provide us with anything substantial, aside from ridiculous entertainment? Most of these shows are scripted and edited to look more exciting and dramatic than they are. Additionally, most people come across as morons (Housewives of Orange County? Or how about that old NYC based ludicrousness called The Gastaneau Girls....plastic mother and daughter living their Upper East Side, shallow lives?)
On the flip side, there are shows with average Americans living in average towns, and perhaps that's where the popularity of reality tv sets in. It's alluring to watch other families and "normal" people get spotlight and fame. If it happens to them, surely, it can happen to me? Let's not forget the other voice going off in our heads. Just like a soap opera, their lives are worse than mine.
Kate Gosselin told People magazine, "I don't know that we're in the same place anymore, that we want the same thing." Now THAT is amazing!!!!! How could anyone feel that way about a marriage? How could anyone cheat and be confused about his or her spouse and raising eight kids? Truly groundbreaking interview, folks. I have no ill will toward her, don't get me wrong. I feel sad for her that her life has been thrown into the public eye in such a degrading, embarrassing way, not to mention that her husband is a total ass for thinking that his affair could be kept from the public or his kids. He's a selfish prick. I'm sure she's under a tremendous amount of stress anyway dealing with a large family, and now this. It must suck.
However, I do blame the media. People feels the need to publish this? This is the same level as the death of Natasha Richardson, a beloved stage and screen actress who did good work for society? I believe reality television cheapens people. Women look like bimbos (Housewives). Men look like schmucks (The Bachelor). HORRID singers and dancers get televised and applauded. Moreover, as a society we soak it up like pathetic amoebas.
I'm fully aware that it's entertainment, not to mention reality shows are cheaper to produce so their presence is conducive to a bad economy. But I, for one, learn nothing from them. I never gave two shits about Paris and Nicole's old feud, nor have I ever cared about them when their bizarre "show" was being aired. It's not very smart to parade them on magazines, either. They are hardly acceptable role models for young women, but then again, how many socialites are? The only one I can think of is Ivanka Trump, or whatever her name is. At least she is educated and works. Hopefully, she won't follow in dad's footsteps and start some insipid apprentice garbage. (Plus, her father's plastic surgery was always too distracting for me--I could never watch an hour of his immovable face. Let's get real.) Maybe she already has. I wouldn't know. I don't watch those types of shows.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Ida, Lady of the Lake
We should all be so lucky to have a life with no regrets, one filled with health and vigor. We should all be so lucky to be surrounded by loved ones at the time of our death. For that matter, we should all have many people who love us for our entire 95 years on this earth. But, I suppose, we should be so lucky to live to be 95. My dear grandma Ida, otherwise known as my bubby, was one of the fortunate. And I, in turn, am one of the lucky whose lives she impacted.
I am the little girl she always wanted. "When you were born, bubbala, I finally got my little girl."I've been told, from a young age, that I am just like her. Her love of music, which she imparted on my dad, who imparted his own love onto me, her gracefulness (she won a dance contest at age 15), her appreciation in general for the arts. All of this has clearly impacted me in a myriad of ways throughout my life. We used to watch Ice Skating competitions on tv together and male diving during the Olympics ( I can still hear her saying, "my, my just look at those bodies").
But I believe it is the essence of who she was as a person that I inherited. She had no tolerance for bullshit. She was a woman of respect and class but you did NOT cross her path. My father was the same way, and I, being very much like my father, have a sharp tongue. Too often. She worried about her health all the time, but that in itself kept her healthy to a ripe age, and as many of you know, I have slight hypochondriachial tendencies.
She had to have the finer things in life, the right necklace, the perfect coat for the appropriate weather, the right slippers to make sure her feet were comfortable and warm. The funny thing is, she was always calling us to tell us to order such and such on QVC or ask if we wanted certain shoes or sweaters that would be relevant to God knows what, but she was always right! Her instincts and knowledge were impeccable on all ends, regardless of a shoe size or whether to get book ends. She could read people within minutes of meeting them, and regardless of what she thought of them would know their life story before their second encounter.
The most significant thing, though, that I remember about my bubby is her elegance and how she would try to instill that into me. For years, I thought she was old-fashioned. I thought she had a sexist mentality: Let the man do the talking and let him think he's so smart. THEN you take charge when you have him. With my Barnard education, I let her comments roll in one year and out the other. But as I got older, I began to realize she knew quite a bit about quite a lot.
She put my grandfather through college and never stopped working, even after he graduated. She could play softball as a young woman with any man she came into contact with. She believed in gay rights, believed I had a brilliant mind and could accomplish anything I wanted, even though I was female. She was simply able to live her life with a certain amount of grace that I wish I possessed. Perhaps it's her generation, or maybe what she was taught, but I think it was her instinct. She knew what to say to people to make them feel comfortable and loved. She knew when to be honest and when to glaze over the truth, ever so slightly. She was blunt, yes, and quite critical at times, but her love was always apparent.
If there is one thing I learned from Ida it is that the love of one's family is the most valuable posession. It is not something to be trampled on or taken for granted. To give love means to receive it. To reach out to a family member usually ensures someone will reach out to you. And it should be instinctual, it should go without saying.
I will always love you Bubby Ida. Your grace and elegance will always be admired by your family and those you encountered. Your deep love and affection will always protect me.
I am the little girl she always wanted. "When you were born, bubbala, I finally got my little girl."I've been told, from a young age, that I am just like her. Her love of music, which she imparted on my dad, who imparted his own love onto me, her gracefulness (she won a dance contest at age 15), her appreciation in general for the arts. All of this has clearly impacted me in a myriad of ways throughout my life. We used to watch Ice Skating competitions on tv together and male diving during the Olympics ( I can still hear her saying, "my, my just look at those bodies").
But I believe it is the essence of who she was as a person that I inherited. She had no tolerance for bullshit. She was a woman of respect and class but you did NOT cross her path. My father was the same way, and I, being very much like my father, have a sharp tongue. Too often. She worried about her health all the time, but that in itself kept her healthy to a ripe age, and as many of you know, I have slight hypochondriachial tendencies.
She had to have the finer things in life, the right necklace, the perfect coat for the appropriate weather, the right slippers to make sure her feet were comfortable and warm. The funny thing is, she was always calling us to tell us to order such and such on QVC or ask if we wanted certain shoes or sweaters that would be relevant to God knows what, but she was always right! Her instincts and knowledge were impeccable on all ends, regardless of a shoe size or whether to get book ends. She could read people within minutes of meeting them, and regardless of what she thought of them would know their life story before their second encounter.
The most significant thing, though, that I remember about my bubby is her elegance and how she would try to instill that into me. For years, I thought she was old-fashioned. I thought she had a sexist mentality: Let the man do the talking and let him think he's so smart. THEN you take charge when you have him. With my Barnard education, I let her comments roll in one year and out the other. But as I got older, I began to realize she knew quite a bit about quite a lot.
She put my grandfather through college and never stopped working, even after he graduated. She could play softball as a young woman with any man she came into contact with. She believed in gay rights, believed I had a brilliant mind and could accomplish anything I wanted, even though I was female. She was simply able to live her life with a certain amount of grace that I wish I possessed. Perhaps it's her generation, or maybe what she was taught, but I think it was her instinct. She knew what to say to people to make them feel comfortable and loved. She knew when to be honest and when to glaze over the truth, ever so slightly. She was blunt, yes, and quite critical at times, but her love was always apparent.
If there is one thing I learned from Ida it is that the love of one's family is the most valuable posession. It is not something to be trampled on or taken for granted. To give love means to receive it. To reach out to a family member usually ensures someone will reach out to you. And it should be instinctual, it should go without saying.
I will always love you Bubby Ida. Your grace and elegance will always be admired by your family and those you encountered. Your deep love and affection will always protect me.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Of Courage
Inspiration is found in the most unlikely sources.
I was on the subway at 59th street this morning waiting for the train to work, and there was a young man with a sign around his neck that stated his name, his age (20), and that he had lost his arms in an accident. He was asking for donations to help him get prosthetics. My initial reaction was an inward roll of the eyes and the thought " not another person lying to get money." A second later, I saw the arm stumps, noticed he looked healthy, was well-shaven, dressed decently, and was shaking a leg, likely from nerves, or embarrassment. The doubt that I had just experienced vanished instantly, and I noticed the pain in his eyes at being reduced to, let's face it, a beggar....
What I also began to notice were how many people were putting money in his backpack, which was wrapped around his neck. They were young, old, rushed and calm-a heartwarming indication that New Yorkers DO care about their neighbors, myself included, for at that moment I reached into my own wallet and tried to make his goal just slightly more attainable. Did they too have the same gut reaction that I had, that this man wasn't lying about using the money for what he said he would? Did they feel injustice at what he must be feeling and experiencing in those moments? I can only assume so.
However, I do feel strongly that this attractive young man is a victim of a country and city of huge economic disparities. He should be given money and aide from an insurance company, from the government, anywhere but on the platform of the A, C, B and D trains at Columbus Circle. Perhaps he has tried, and hopefully he is getting some help from these sources, but clearly, it is not sufficient.
Human nature enables us to get mired in our own problems. We worry about losing our jobs in this trying economy, not even pausing to appreciate that we have arms and fingers to log onto the internet and send out our resumes should that happen. We complain if our hours are cut, even though we are lucky to have jobs in the first place. People get angry about a $40 co-pay to a doctor, not realizing how much it would cost them if they didn't have insurance (anywhere from $150-300, actually) or how much their medication would cost, numbers that can send any American without coverage into enormous debt. And of course, we take our health and our arms, legs, hands and feet for granted, the concept of prosthetics a foreign idea, not even wishing to entertain that travesty.
For the most part, we aren't as grateful as we should be, nor do we appreciate how precious our daily abilities can be. Other lives are always better; your neighbor's apartment is bigger, your friend's kids go to a more elite school, you wish you made partner in your firm, you wish you hadn't. In sum: the grass is always greener. Except when it's not. Except when one has to muster up tremendous courage to convince absolute strangers that their help is crucial to his future well-being.
And yet, this courage itself is inspiring. Necessity breeds invention. This man put himself in a vulnerable position knowing that people may turn their noses at him, form biased opinions and not care. And yet, in the face of adversity, he did what he believed necessary to make a better life for himself, and that alone is admirable. I can't stop thinking about what must have been going through his head that morning and the anxiety he seemed to be experiencing. I, for one, don't plan on taking my physical capabilities for granted anymore.
If you see this man on the subway platform, give him a donation-help him to be able to lead a normal life. He'll thank you, and his courage will inspire you.
I was on the subway at 59th street this morning waiting for the train to work, and there was a young man with a sign around his neck that stated his name, his age (20), and that he had lost his arms in an accident. He was asking for donations to help him get prosthetics. My initial reaction was an inward roll of the eyes and the thought " not another person lying to get money." A second later, I saw the arm stumps, noticed he looked healthy, was well-shaven, dressed decently, and was shaking a leg, likely from nerves, or embarrassment. The doubt that I had just experienced vanished instantly, and I noticed the pain in his eyes at being reduced to, let's face it, a beggar....
What I also began to notice were how many people were putting money in his backpack, which was wrapped around his neck. They were young, old, rushed and calm-a heartwarming indication that New Yorkers DO care about their neighbors, myself included, for at that moment I reached into my own wallet and tried to make his goal just slightly more attainable. Did they too have the same gut reaction that I had, that this man wasn't lying about using the money for what he said he would? Did they feel injustice at what he must be feeling and experiencing in those moments? I can only assume so.
However, I do feel strongly that this attractive young man is a victim of a country and city of huge economic disparities. He should be given money and aide from an insurance company, from the government, anywhere but on the platform of the A, C, B and D trains at Columbus Circle. Perhaps he has tried, and hopefully he is getting some help from these sources, but clearly, it is not sufficient.
Human nature enables us to get mired in our own problems. We worry about losing our jobs in this trying economy, not even pausing to appreciate that we have arms and fingers to log onto the internet and send out our resumes should that happen. We complain if our hours are cut, even though we are lucky to have jobs in the first place. People get angry about a $40 co-pay to a doctor, not realizing how much it would cost them if they didn't have insurance (anywhere from $150-300, actually) or how much their medication would cost, numbers that can send any American without coverage into enormous debt. And of course, we take our health and our arms, legs, hands and feet for granted, the concept of prosthetics a foreign idea, not even wishing to entertain that travesty.
For the most part, we aren't as grateful as we should be, nor do we appreciate how precious our daily abilities can be. Other lives are always better; your neighbor's apartment is bigger, your friend's kids go to a more elite school, you wish you made partner in your firm, you wish you hadn't. In sum: the grass is always greener. Except when it's not. Except when one has to muster up tremendous courage to convince absolute strangers that their help is crucial to his future well-being.
And yet, this courage itself is inspiring. Necessity breeds invention. This man put himself in a vulnerable position knowing that people may turn their noses at him, form biased opinions and not care. And yet, in the face of adversity, he did what he believed necessary to make a better life for himself, and that alone is admirable. I can't stop thinking about what must have been going through his head that morning and the anxiety he seemed to be experiencing. I, for one, don't plan on taking my physical capabilities for granted anymore.
If you see this man on the subway platform, give him a donation-help him to be able to lead a normal life. He'll thank you, and his courage will inspire you.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Bat Chronicle: Lack Bracket
I've always loved attention. As a toddler, I would bang my head on the floor if I didn't get my way, which was useless as my parents were informed by my pediatrician to just leave the room when I started to pound the pavement. As I got older, this behavior was replaced by other, more healthy (at least I like to think) activities; singing "Take Back Your Mink" from Guys and Dolls when I was five for company, dancing for my grandmothers, a desire to be first for everything in school, always wanting to sit up front, etc. I'm sure my drive to be noticed and fawned over is a large part of why I chose a career in show business. Yes, I love the artistic "process." True, I adore moving people when I sing or perform, but accolades are amazing.
Nonetheless, this career has some major pitfalls, such as a lack of consistent medical insurance, and I am currently an active member of this "lack" bracket. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that when I was exposed to a bat last Saturday night, I found myself at 1:15 a.m. on Sunday morning, January 25th, walking through the eerily silent hallway and pavillion toward the ER at Bellevue Hospital on 27th and 1st Avenue, an institution known for its service to the uninsured.
The weirdest part of this experience is that there was a flying rodent in my 130 square foot "apartment," which my mother calls "the shoebox." I knew little about these creatures before Saturday night, other than that they swoop up, down and at you at full speed, are jet black, hang upside down when they sleep, are associated with vampires and should not, under any circumstances, be flying around an apartment on the Upper West Side, chased by a 2-year-old cat.
It's still a mystery how this Dracula maneuvered itself into my residence, but when I first saw it, all I could muster were numerous screams and "Oh My Gods!" for about 3 minutes. I was on the phone when I first realized that there was a cat and bat dance performing next to my couch. I ran into the hallway, waited until it swooped out, then rushed in and slammed my door (my friend with whom I was chatting later told me she thought I was having an aneurism). My mother, of course, convinced me to go to the ER as soon as possible because you don't always know if it bites you, I was exposed, etc. etc. Then, I started to panic. What if it bit me when I was sleeping? Could the bat itself have been sleeping in my apartment for a day or two unbeknownst to me? Could my cat have rabies now even though she was vaccinated in August? And of course, what if I actually DIE from rabies? Having hypochondriachal tendencies to begin with, it didn't take long to convince myself to get to a hospital. And soon.
ERs are an interesting place in general, so I figured Bellevue would be more than interesting. However, I didn't have to wait long, and the staff was amazing. At around 2:15 a.m. I was told by the resident (let's call him Dr. Y) that it probably wasn't necessary to get the rabies series because I wasn't bit, but he needed to double-check with the attending physician. Dr. Y was a first year resident, although he didn't really look old enough even to be in medical school, had a slight, endearing Chinese accent and had gone to Johns Hopkins. Incidentally, he had recently watched a special on National Geographic about bats. Timing is everything.
I spent the next 45 minutes on the phone with my dear friend Lauren trying to calm her down because she ran into a door leaving a club rushing to get a cab to come meet me and thought she had broken her nose. At least our conversation was a distraction from the messy bathroom inhabited by old people and weirdos walking around in smocks, not to mention a young guy with a busted lip who was having headaches and kept going into the bathroom for 30 minutes at a time, letting the faucet run (I chose to use the lavoratory around the corner).
Dr. Y came back about an hour later to inform me that I would, in fact, need the shots. Apparently, the Center for Disease Control thought it was wise because the bat was in my living quarters and may have left "droppings." Whatever. Okay, fine. I slowly came to learn that there is a shortage of rabies vaccines available in NYC, not to mention the entire country, so they had to call other hospitals in the city to get it transported for me.
Over the next four hours, I sat patiently with no book (big mistake) or distraction trying to sleep on a hospital chair. I was also attempting NOT to puke up my midori sours from earlier in the evening, but at the same time, I could feel my stomach eating my breasts from not having had dinner. I was in stellar condition.
However, the odd thing about the whole night/morning was that I found my situation fascinating. As I mentioned, attention is my thing, and I was getting a LOT of it in an ER simply for shots. There was no pain, no blood on my body, no illness (other than drunken remnants), nothing life threathening in the traditional sense and no broken bones, and yet, Dr. Y and his boss came back to talk to me several times. Apparently, they were having trouble getting the Immunoglobulin, the "rig" that halts any rabies I may already have in my system (I needed this shot in addition to the regular vaccine, which was easier to get). Even though it was highly unlikely I had contracted rabies, they were being "super cautious." These are two words anyone with any level of hypochondria loves to hear, so at least I knew I was in good hands.
This was a much bigger ordeal than I think anyone in the hospital, especially myself, could have predicted. I could hear the fourth year resident on the phone all night with different hospital pharmacies, could sense the urgency that they needed to give this shot to me before I left and that it was very difficult to obtain. Even still, I got the impression that the staff actually cared tremendously. They weren't dismissive with my questions, weren't impatient with me or each other (at least as far as I could tell) and probably don't get many cases like mine. I'm sure my situation was surprising and unique. The bottom line is this: I was a large source of their medical work for about 4.5 hours; I was the "Girl with the Bat," the "rabies patient-" titles I began to enjoy.
Moreover, it was quite educational to see how an ER works overnight. Grey's Anatomy makes a little more sense (only without the dramatic drama), as the whole medical and doctor hierarchy is obvious and necessary. These realizations may seem obvious, but unless one spends an entire night in an ER watching a clock tick and eavesdropping on residents and the attending physicians, they can be a foreign concept.
At around 6:15 a.m., Dr. Y came back with a smile on his face, a bounce in his step and said, "Well, you're sure getting a lot of attention. We've located the immunoglobulin, but it needs to be escorted here by the NYPD. Whenever there is a shortage of a medication at one hospital, it needs to be hand delivered by officers from where it is located." I was loving this, and so, it seems, was Dr. Y.
The shots were finally administered at 7:30 am. I was told to come back to the ER four more times, on very specific dates. The doctors bid me farewell, and I walked into the early sunny morning a little dazed, overly stimulated, a bit hungover, very hungry and fighting a headache. I arrived home at 8, slept fitfully for all of three hours and left for work at 11:45, where I got another headache and drank gingerale all afternoon so that I wouldn't vomit.
I have since had my second and third vaccines, with two more left. Each experience at Bellevue Hospital has been interesting and rather fun. The staff are consistently friendly, but shocked: "There was a bat in your apartment?" I don't mind. The more attention I receive, the better.
Nonetheless, this career has some major pitfalls, such as a lack of consistent medical insurance, and I am currently an active member of this "lack" bracket. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that when I was exposed to a bat last Saturday night, I found myself at 1:15 a.m. on Sunday morning, January 25th, walking through the eerily silent hallway and pavillion toward the ER at Bellevue Hospital on 27th and 1st Avenue, an institution known for its service to the uninsured.
The weirdest part of this experience is that there was a flying rodent in my 130 square foot "apartment," which my mother calls "the shoebox." I knew little about these creatures before Saturday night, other than that they swoop up, down and at you at full speed, are jet black, hang upside down when they sleep, are associated with vampires and should not, under any circumstances, be flying around an apartment on the Upper West Side, chased by a 2-year-old cat.
It's still a mystery how this Dracula maneuvered itself into my residence, but when I first saw it, all I could muster were numerous screams and "Oh My Gods!" for about 3 minutes. I was on the phone when I first realized that there was a cat and bat dance performing next to my couch. I ran into the hallway, waited until it swooped out, then rushed in and slammed my door (my friend with whom I was chatting later told me she thought I was having an aneurism). My mother, of course, convinced me to go to the ER as soon as possible because you don't always know if it bites you, I was exposed, etc. etc. Then, I started to panic. What if it bit me when I was sleeping? Could the bat itself have been sleeping in my apartment for a day or two unbeknownst to me? Could my cat have rabies now even though she was vaccinated in August? And of course, what if I actually DIE from rabies? Having hypochondriachal tendencies to begin with, it didn't take long to convince myself to get to a hospital. And soon.
ERs are an interesting place in general, so I figured Bellevue would be more than interesting. However, I didn't have to wait long, and the staff was amazing. At around 2:15 a.m. I was told by the resident (let's call him Dr. Y) that it probably wasn't necessary to get the rabies series because I wasn't bit, but he needed to double-check with the attending physician. Dr. Y was a first year resident, although he didn't really look old enough even to be in medical school, had a slight, endearing Chinese accent and had gone to Johns Hopkins. Incidentally, he had recently watched a special on National Geographic about bats. Timing is everything.
I spent the next 45 minutes on the phone with my dear friend Lauren trying to calm her down because she ran into a door leaving a club rushing to get a cab to come meet me and thought she had broken her nose. At least our conversation was a distraction from the messy bathroom inhabited by old people and weirdos walking around in smocks, not to mention a young guy with a busted lip who was having headaches and kept going into the bathroom for 30 minutes at a time, letting the faucet run (I chose to use the lavoratory around the corner).
Dr. Y came back about an hour later to inform me that I would, in fact, need the shots. Apparently, the Center for Disease Control thought it was wise because the bat was in my living quarters and may have left "droppings." Whatever. Okay, fine. I slowly came to learn that there is a shortage of rabies vaccines available in NYC, not to mention the entire country, so they had to call other hospitals in the city to get it transported for me.
Over the next four hours, I sat patiently with no book (big mistake) or distraction trying to sleep on a hospital chair. I was also attempting NOT to puke up my midori sours from earlier in the evening, but at the same time, I could feel my stomach eating my breasts from not having had dinner. I was in stellar condition.
However, the odd thing about the whole night/morning was that I found my situation fascinating. As I mentioned, attention is my thing, and I was getting a LOT of it in an ER simply for shots. There was no pain, no blood on my body, no illness (other than drunken remnants), nothing life threathening in the traditional sense and no broken bones, and yet, Dr. Y and his boss came back to talk to me several times. Apparently, they were having trouble getting the Immunoglobulin, the "rig" that halts any rabies I may already have in my system (I needed this shot in addition to the regular vaccine, which was easier to get). Even though it was highly unlikely I had contracted rabies, they were being "super cautious." These are two words anyone with any level of hypochondria loves to hear, so at least I knew I was in good hands.
This was a much bigger ordeal than I think anyone in the hospital, especially myself, could have predicted. I could hear the fourth year resident on the phone all night with different hospital pharmacies, could sense the urgency that they needed to give this shot to me before I left and that it was very difficult to obtain. Even still, I got the impression that the staff actually cared tremendously. They weren't dismissive with my questions, weren't impatient with me or each other (at least as far as I could tell) and probably don't get many cases like mine. I'm sure my situation was surprising and unique. The bottom line is this: I was a large source of their medical work for about 4.5 hours; I was the "Girl with the Bat," the "rabies patient-" titles I began to enjoy.
Moreover, it was quite educational to see how an ER works overnight. Grey's Anatomy makes a little more sense (only without the dramatic drama), as the whole medical and doctor hierarchy is obvious and necessary. These realizations may seem obvious, but unless one spends an entire night in an ER watching a clock tick and eavesdropping on residents and the attending physicians, they can be a foreign concept.
At around 6:15 a.m., Dr. Y came back with a smile on his face, a bounce in his step and said, "Well, you're sure getting a lot of attention. We've located the immunoglobulin, but it needs to be escorted here by the NYPD. Whenever there is a shortage of a medication at one hospital, it needs to be hand delivered by officers from where it is located." I was loving this, and so, it seems, was Dr. Y.
The shots were finally administered at 7:30 am. I was told to come back to the ER four more times, on very specific dates. The doctors bid me farewell, and I walked into the early sunny morning a little dazed, overly stimulated, a bit hungover, very hungry and fighting a headache. I arrived home at 8, slept fitfully for all of three hours and left for work at 11:45, where I got another headache and drank gingerale all afternoon so that I wouldn't vomit.
I have since had my second and third vaccines, with two more left. Each experience at Bellevue Hospital has been interesting and rather fun. The staff are consistently friendly, but shocked: "There was a bat in your apartment?" I don't mind. The more attention I receive, the better.
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