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A SHORTHAND

A SHORTHAND

While I’m not quite sure why an iPhone’s battery can deplete so rapidly, I do know that I spent a great deal of time this weekend either charging my phone or kicking it into “low power mode.”  And sticking with that lifelong personal trait of mine not to fully comprehend science-y stuff, I can’t say with certainty what a low power mode does, but I can tell you that the light at the very top of the screen turns yellow and yellow is my very favorite color – as is evidenced by the fact that I wear black all the time.  There’s a real part of me that believes the batteries in our phones are preprogrammed to shrivel up and die – much as I pray that one person I hate will also do imminently – whenever Apple is set to release a new version, but that could just be the conspiracy theorist inside of me running amok because I’m sure no gigantic corporation would ever do anything unseemly, like futz with its products simply to inspire rabid customer consumption. Anyway, I digress; what I am trying to communicate here is that I was away from my phone for much of the weekend because it needed to be plugged into a wall and I chose not to spend all of my time sitting next to a wall because it was gorgeous outside and I am so pale that I think I might soon be considered my very own species.

At one point while my phone was not within its standard arm’s reach, I received a voicemail from one of my oldest friends.  It’s funny:  many of the people in my life who call will never leave a message.  I guess they just expect that I’ll notice I missed a call and return it and really, who wants to wait out all of those rings?  But this is a guy I knew back in the days when call waiting had recently become a glorious new invention and answering machines were still tabletop devices you ran to while praying the red light would be flickering because that flicker maybe meant someone good had reached out to you.  As a caller, I’ve spent a lot of long seconds of my life praying that I’d get the machine instead of the actual person because there were moments I guess I felt too nervous or tired or annoyed to talk for real, but at the same time I always hated how my voice sounded on messages.  You have such a sweet voice, a guy I used to really care about said to me more than a few times – but I wasn’t looking to sound sweet.  I always wanted to sound when I spoke like Stevie Nicks sounds when she sings and well, let’s just say I don’t.

THEN & NOW

THEN & NOW

I used to sit in the passenger seat of my father’s tan car, stare hard at the blur of forest green woods just outside my window as we drove by them, and wonder if there were any dead bodies hidden back there.  I was always somewhat certain that at least a few had to be buried underneath makeshift heaps of brown leaves that had turned a little bit grey from the rain.  

I would walk across the docks in the harbor town where I grew up, the planks of old wood bending and creaking beneath the sneakers I used to wear then.  I’d gaze out into the distance by squinting my eyes against the rainbow-colored glares of the sun.  Far off, I could see glinting flecks of light that looked like silver sparkles dancing on the water’s surface that I knew were caused by the sun but I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps a mermaid had formed them herself when she took a break from brushing her long hair while reclining on a rock. 

I went to sleep every night only after bracketing my body with stuffed animals.  Cookie Monster slept on one side of me while my bear, Mr. Gerber, reclined on the other.  I felt safer somehow if I wasn’t alone in my bed.  I guess I still do. 

I moved into my sorority house as a junior in college right after I’d spent part of the summer going on a true crime reading spree.  Despite a rather overactive imagination that might have caused my parents great concern back in my toddler years, I grew up into a person who was able to talk myself out of getting too freaked out by the scary stories I enjoyed consuming for entertainment.  But the tales about Ted Bundy freaked me out entirely because I just knew I was the kind of person who would have stopped to help carry some books if a nice-looking guy appeared to be struggling with them and I also knew that’s how Bundy got some of his victims.  Lose that lining of naiveté you’ve still got surrounding your heart and your mind like Tupperware, I told myself once as the Bundy story kept me awake well into the early morning and I pulled my Cookie Monster closer.  I finally managed to get over that fear.  I just promised myself I would never stop to help some random person ever again and sure, I’ve struggled with such a proclamation, but I’ve comforted my tortured soul by explaining to it that at least it wasn’t being tortured in some psychopath’s basement.

 

MIRRORS, GLASS, & ESCORTS

MIRRORS, GLASS, & ESCORTS

My sister watches Days of Our Lives.  I feel like I need to be clear here:  she didn’t just start watching Days of Our Lives and she didn’t used to watch Days of Our Lives.  No, she has consistently watched Days of Our Lives since high school and she is in her forties now and I don’t believe she’s missed even one single day of the show.  Her commitment could be seen as impressive were it not so terrifying.

I used to watch that show, too.  I was such a fan while I was in college that I would organize my class schedule so as not to miss a minute of the dastardly goings-on in Salem, which were often far more interesting than the generic chaos happening on campus on a random Thursday.  That said, even as a Film major who learned early the concept of willfully suspending disbelief, I had a limit when it came to the patently ridiculous and it was the storyline that centered on Stefano living in the depths of Marlena’s closet and sneaking into her bedroom to open her soul every night that finally pushed me over the proverbial ledge. I’d already accepted demonic possessions and new actors appearing as longstanding characters out of nowhere and pregnancy scares and swamp girls turning into princesses; I had to draw the fucking line somewhere.  

The show is moronic, I told my sister over the phone as gently as I could.  I’m breaking up with it and, if you have any dignity, you will cut it out of your life as well.

I was, after all, only trying to be supportive of a family member.

Leigh did not break up with Marlena or John or Patch or Sammy.  She stuck with them and I was able to make a tremendous amount of fun of her for years and years about the bullshit programming she embraced as entertainment.  Me?  I got into different shows like Lost and Breaking Bad and The Wire and Dexter – you know, quality programming.  I would talk about those shows with friends and acquaintances and new men I met at bars.  (Nothing makes a man more excited than a girl in a tank top talking about Dexter.  Actually, if my cleavage could project Caddyshack on a nearby wall, that might beat the Dexter thing, but I’ve yet to figure out the technology behind that little skill.)  But privately?  Well, that was a different story because I also found myself falling into a ditch where only reality shows played on a loop and, even though I probably could have crawled out of that ditch without too much trouble, I chose to stay there and I installed a DVR.  I began watching The Real Housewives of Fucking Everywhere and Survivor and Vanderpump Rules and one season of America’s Next Top Model, though I completely blame a friend for pulling me into that one.  I tuned in to the first few seasons of American Idol – and I even voted once, which is on my Top 10 list of Biggest Personal Humiliations.  (It ranks higher than the time my left boob popped out of my bikini top on a date and sat there bobbing on the surface of the water for at least five minutes before I realized what was happening.)  And I became (oh God, the shame) a fan of Big Brother and watched every episode of that show – and lest you not realize how humungous (and tragic) a revelation I am making here, please know that show airs three times a week during the summer.

DO-OVER

DO-OVER

It was only yesterday when one of my students arrived for class looking like he’d just suffered an emotional punch to the face by someone who had never allowed a gym membership to lapse.  As usual, he was the second student to arrive, but this time everything was different.  He usually drops off his stuff on his desk, collects the handouts needed for the day, and then heads back into the hallway so he can coo and cuddle with his girlfriend before the bell rings.  Then they all but dramatically scream, “Fare thee well!” at one another and reluctantly part ways for the next thirty-eight minutes.  

I never say anything to kids who are making out in the hallway.  I sort of just avert my eyes so I won’t see tongues flying about because I’m pretty certain that kind of image would scar me.  And I rarely to never ask students about how their romantic relationships are going because I used to have this odd and rather terrible habit of inquiring about the status of things on the very day one of them was broken up with by the other via text.  I’ve never said a word to this particular student about his girlfriend before and I don’t even know her name, but the absolute light that shines from his eyes when she is anywhere in his line of vision is obvious.  As an adult who knows how rare it is for high school love to last forever, I wish I could hold a hand up in front of my face the way I did the first time I saw The Texas Chainsaw Massacre because I just know the certain carnage that lies ahead.

THE RELAXATION ROOM

THE RELAXATION ROOM

This summer, I’m going to take Tallulah for a long walk every single morning before it gets sweaty-hot outside. I should walk her down by the water and get a cup of coffee afterwards!  Wait:  the people at Starbucks won’t allow me to bring her inside and I’m not about to tie her to the pole next to the door. The chance that someone might look at her and realize she’s worth a bounty is way too high.  I’ll just walk her up and down the hills near my house.  I hate hills.  I also hate Jonah Hill…

There was a line at the front desk and every single person standing in front of me wanted to use a gift certificate and then promptly lost several shits as each realized she would have to pay the difference.  One woman flatly refused and asked instead to see a list of cheaper treatments before settling on a facial that doesn’t include an extra blast of what I’m guessing is very costly oxygen.  I decided to make the choice not to get annoyed by the way certain people can be so inconsiderate of strangers waiting patiently in a line behind them and I got through my minor exasperation by slowly and deeply breathing in some oxygen that nobody charged me for.

THE LIFE-STOPPING INCONVENIENCE OF TIDYING UP

THE LIFE-STOPPING INCONVENIENCE OF TIDYING UP

While my favorite things to read are either books that can be filed under categories like Historical Nonfiction or articles about how this entire society is either going to be saved by a cronut or destroyed by a Kardashian, I’m still always open to the literary suggestions of others and I often shill out some suggestions as well.  It’s funny, though:  I feel legitimately guilty if I recommend a book or an article to a friend and the end result is that the person doesn’t enjoy it or get why it maybe meant so much to me.  I understand that reading causes reactions and reactions are subjective, but there’s still almost this tangible feeling of failure when it’s revealed that no, your best friend did not enjoy the book Prep and now she really can’t understand why you’re dragging her to a book signing of the author’s follow-up and staring at that author like she’s fucking Elvis.  You forgive this friend, of course.  After all, she’s the person you stole Easy Riders, Raging Bulls from all those many years ago and you smile every single time you open your pilfered copy and see the one sentence that she underlined in the entire book was a quote by Joan Didion.

How’s the weight loss going?  I texted this question to a friend the other night.  He had to gain many pounds for an acting role that is now complete.

Only twenty to go, he answered.  I’ve been boxing.

You should remake Raging Bull, I responded – and then, just as I pressed send, I had this horrible thudding feeling settle inside of me because nobody should ever remake Raging Bull and what if my text somehow put the entire travesty into motion simply because I’d foolishly introduced those vibes into the universe?  What if Jonah Hill's eventual starring role in Raging Bull 2 is all my fault?

 

WHAT I DIDN'T TELL HIM

WHAT I DIDN'T TELL HIM

I used to have this rather disturbing habit of dreaming about ex-boyfriends while lying beside current ones.  The dreams were sometimes a little bit sexual, but more uncomfortable than nightly dream-state visions of my legs wrapped around the waist of someone from my past was the undeniable fact that the dreams were always rather pleasant.  On those dark evenings as I slumbered beside someone I really cared for, my psyche seemed to want to entertain all of those yesterdays – and only concentrate on the joy of those former lifetimes. 

I never told the unsuspecting men over coffee and egg whites the next morning about what exactly had raced through my mind the night before.  To do so seemed cruel to them – and patently unfair to me. It wasn’t like I’d wanted those dreams to happen.  But I’d look up and see someone smile as he handed me a steaming cup of coffee and I’d feel a tightness in the corners of my mouth when I’d smile back because I knew I was hiding something and my thoughts would begin to race as I’d try to analyze myself right there on the spot to figure out why that other guy had made a starring role in my dream and what it could all mean and then I’d feel a drop happen in my stomach that would stop me short for just a second because I’d know right then and there that this current man probably had some dreams as well and they couldn’t possibly have all included me.

Last night, however, I did not dream about another man.  Last night I dreamed about McDonald’s French Fries.  I was able to recall, even after I woke up and took a shower, just how yellow they were and how they tasted just the perfect amount of salty and I knew, even in my dream, that it was a little strange that they were being served out of a navy blue paper container instead of the conventional red one.  I think the navy part must have come into play because I picked out what I’d be wearing for work right before I went to sleep last night and I chose a flippy navy-colored dress and I looked at it hanging on the hook on the back of my door right before I closed my eyes for the night. 

I haven’t had a McDonald’s French Fry in a very long time, though I’ll happily wager that I could probably find a petrified piece of one should I ever decide to clean out my car.  Like Twinkies, cockroaches, and Vicki Gunvalson, my guess is that McDonald’s French Fries will be part of the collection of relics left behind once we all sufficiently destroy this civilization.  I take only a bit of comfort in the idea that future explorers will surely deduce that we ate an enormous amount of crap in our time here on Earth, but I also hope they’ll realize that the stuff was yummy as hell. In fact, I pray a distant future scholar will one day write a full dissertation comparing all things Hostess to the lure of those Sirens that Odysseus had to combat.  I also pray it’ll be titled The Last Temptation of the Hostess Snoball.  

 

THE CAVE

THE CAVE

 

There was this creepy movie that came out a few years ago in the United Kingdom before an American studio bought it and distributed it here. The version released on our shores was almost identical to the original cut, but the film was given a brand new ending that basically served to create the possibility of a sequel (or five) because, if there’s one thing our country knows how to export, it’s action and horror franchises. The Descent’s plot involved a bunch of women willingly shimmying themselves down into the deep and narrow crevices of caves where they promptly lost their way and, just when it seemed like it couldn’t possibly become any more horrific or traumatizing, it all somehow got even worse.  See, the caves were also home to wiry creatures that looked like the alien fetus who popped out of the guy’s tummy in Alien and the backwoods inbred folks from Wrong Turn had a baby – and then ate that baby and then vomited the baby up and decided to go and raise it deep beneath the Earth’s surface.

The cave-dwelling creature (so deadly white and blessed with a mouth crammed full of sharp teeth, all the better to eat you with, my dear) was visually alarming for sure and the filmmakers revealed him perfectly.  There he stood, lurking in the back corner of the frame.  The light was dim and he slowly came into focus. It was a powerful moment, the kind only an art form like cinema – one that is capable of manipulating time and space and lighting and sound – can truly create. But the bulimic-looking monster who appeared to relish binging on human flesh isn’t what haunted me.  No, it was the topographical nature of the caves and the winding mini trails that led to nowhere and the sharp rocks that jutted out menacingly and the certain knowledge that being trapped is perhaps the very worst thing one can be.

THE 9 STEPS

THE 9 STEPS

STEP 1:  REMOVE ALL REMINDERS FROM YOUR HOME

Quickly, take down those pictures from where you stuck them in the top corner of your mirror, the ones you glance at as you snap your bra closed first thing in the morning.  Your faces, pushed together in the way you’d only stand beside someone with whom you’ve developed a legitimate closeness, will remind you too powerfully of a hope you cannot allow yourself to harbor anymore.  And the pictures that were carefully placed inside of ornately jeweled frames, the ones you’d trimmed unevenly because you’ve still not mastered the art of the cutting with scissors?  Those need to be yanked free and must no longer decorate your coffee table or that black thing you bought that West Elm calls a “console.”  It’s okay that, to this day, there are still three empty frames that sit in one of your desk drawers, a glaring reminder that once images glowed happily from beneath some glass but now there’s just some emptiness.  But remember: it’s not just photographs that will stir up longings or cause you to feel nothing but fragile in that way that you hate.  No, there’s other shit cluttering up your home, stuff that’s barricading up your mind with useless remnants from the past.  These tangible items will corrode your heart bit by bit in a way that will feel like the sting of acid must as it runs through your veins.  The stuffed animal he won at a fair, the one you named? He needs to be carted off to the nearest dumpster immediately.  Colorful magnets that live on the front of your refrigerator that were purchased on a happier day than today need to be buried under trash like empty pill bottles and dyed corks of red wine because, if you can’t see them anymore, maybe you can convince yourself they never existed in the first place.  And those dried flowers, the ones he gave you on that first night?  Well, those need to be destroyed.  Besides, daisies aren’t your favorite flower anymore.  You like pink peonies now.

STEP 2:  WHATEVER YOU DO, REFRAIN FROM LOOKING IN THE MIRROR 

The person whose reflection you see glaring back at you is someone you won’t even recognize.  There is hollowness in her eyes, a deadness in her smile.  Her pallor will have turned a truly unflattering shade of grey and the dimples in her cheeks won’t be nearly as pronounced as they usually are.  Those dimples – usually your favorite physical feature – will no longer indent in a manner you think of as charming.  No, it will just look like you’ve got two holes pounded into the centers of your cheeks and you’ll notice them immediately on the rare moments you do find yourself settling into a bland grin.  Just face the fact that looking at yourself will only give you painful ideas that maybe the reason it didn’t work out is because he was drawn to girls who don’t appear lost and instead behave like an Orthodox Jew might during Shiva:  cover the mirror – all of the mirrors – so you have no need to be reminded of the dead.

THE DROUGHT

THE DROUGHT

Here’s something I wonder about periodically in the harsh dread of night:  Is it possible that there’s an allotted amount of personal strength doled out to each of us and eventually those wells experience a drought?  It seems only fair that the tears we shed should be able to replenish all that’s gone missing, but I’ve learned for sure over the years that it’s simply not the case. 

At sixteen, I wrote my college essay about the subject of personal strength.  Back then, it was probably the quality I felt best defined me.  I guess I was tested a lot when I was young.  I think most of us are, but here’s my own mini rundown of the curious dysfunction that was my formative years:

o   Parents divorced (really contentiously) when I was five.

o   Moved to an area of town where I was the only Jewish kid in the school and one of only four kids who came from what they called “a broken home” in the 1980s.

o   Called “a dirty Jew” when I was in the 3rd grade by some boy in my class.  To this day, I remember his name and the sneer forming on his upper lip as the words came out of his mouth while I leaned against the monkey bars.  I didn’t know why he was saying those ugly things to me, but I know that my head slowly drooped in shame.

o   Hated the man my mother married when I was in the 8th grade.

o   Moved into the city to live with my father when I was in the 9th grade.  I was at my most vulnerable then.  I didn’t know a single person in my new school in Chelsea.  I was also at the most hideous looking physical stage of my entire life, something I would be reminded of each and every time I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror or a pane of glass.

o   Saw my father keel over and die in front of me when I was fourteen.

o   Sued by my step-monster immediately after my father’s death.  She decided it might be nice to have the money he’d left to me so she dragged me into a lawsuit to try to get it.  She also stole my puppy and refused to give him back.  In those lost days following my father’s passing, I needed that dog desperately – and I never saw him again.

o   Moved back in with my mother following my father’s death.

o   Woke up to the news that one of my dearest friends died in a car accident exactly one year to the day that my father died.

It was after the loss of my friend that the people around me began commenting on my apparently impressive reservoir of strength.  I remember getting a phone call quite out of the blue from a guy I wasn’t yet close to and he told me that he couldn’t stop thinking about me and how strong I am for going through what I did and remaining perpetually optimistic and upbeat.  Honestly?  That was a better compliment to receive than hearing that he liked my dimples or that I was starting to develop a body that looked suspiciously like an hourglass.  Those physical things were nice, but they were also beyond my control while the strength factor was something I made it a point to cultivate.