Lawyerish

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Thank you all so much for your condolences and kind words last week.  Sorry to have kept you in suspense -- I'm sure you figured out, given the absence of any scenes of flaming wreckage on the evening news, that none of my crappy small plane flights crashed. In fact, my face-stabbingly early voyage on Monday went smoothly, and my return 24 hours later was also on time and otherwise uneventful.  The funeral was really lovely, with just the right combination of humor, reverence and poignance, and lots of people came, so it was great to see how well-loved my grandmother was in every aspect of her life. 

As a side note, when we were preparing the eulogy, my brother pointed out that my mom had used the word "spendthrift" when she meant to say that Grammie was frugal -- "spendthrift", in fact, means the opposite. Maybe we're the only people who didn't realize this, but I feel like we're a fairly language- and grammar-fussy crowd so the malapropism must have taken hold in the greater public consciousness.  "Fulsome" is another one that I've been called out for misusing in a brief -- its chief definition being "offensive to good taste" or "gross", rather than "complete" as I had thought. 

Speaking of spendthrifts and fulsomeness -- and this is going to be quite the segue here, so hold onto your butts -- Jonna introduced me to the horror show that is "The Real Housewives of New York City", and I am hooked.  It's the sort of thing that should be shared in the way that a nostril-burning bad smell must be shared; if you experience it, you must draw others in to share your pain ("have you SMELLED this?  Oh my God, SMELL IT, it's revolting"). 

These women are...well, you have to see them in action to believe it.  And part of what baffles me so about the whole thing is that these are not "society" women in the traditional sense -- because, presumably, your old-money ladies who lunch and wear pastels to the Junior League, would never debase themselves by flaunting their wealth in such a gaudy manner.  No, these are tacky, nouveau riche types (though one is married to a count -- hee -- and is referred to on the show as The Countess -- double hee) with honking New York/New Jersey/Long Island accents, and they embroil themselves in unnecessary drama of the most distasteful sort (storming out of fashion shows for not getting a front row seat, throwing tantrums on the tennis court, back-biting after being left out of a small gathering).  Yet it is FASCINATING.  Bravo reality programming, you've done it again!

(Also worth a look if you're especially lacking in entertainment options:  "I Know My Child's a Star" on VH1; it's a competition among stage moms and their kids, hosted by Danny Bonaduce, and there are trainwrecks all over every episode.  If you've ever thought for half a second that having your kid get into show business in any capacity, this will dissuade you  in every way imaginable.) 

In other pop culture news, we were the last people on the planet to see "Michael Clayton", which Netflix finally delivered to us this past Friday, in time for our Chinese-food-and-a-movie night.  I liked it, and I thought the acting was very good; but once again, there was something missing for me.  It was almost too simple, somehow, and of course not especially realistic.  It seemed overly compressed, I think.  While I'm not into three-hour, dragged out snorefests, I thought there could have been a lot more background to get the viewer more invested, and that certain of the scenes could have used more context or explication -- I guess it was abrupt, and maybe on the glib side, not that I couldn't follow it, but I didn't feel I had enough of a stake in any of the people or the goings-on. 

It seems like I have this reaction a lot lately, especially to majorly hyped movies -- I'm not sure who's in the editing room these days, but a lot of the characters' motivation seems to be left on the cutting-room floor, and the result is these herky-jerky films where people lurch from one extreme to another in terms of motive or plan or decision-making, and we're left going, "But why?  Why would he do that??"  Or maybe that's just me.

Finally, I need your help.  I need music.  I need some upbeat stuff for working out, and I need some mellow stuff for commuting.  Here are some artists and songs I've liked recently, to give you a sense of what's on my iPod at the moment: 

Sara Bareilles - "Gravity", "City"
Alexi Murdoch - "All of My Days", "Orange Sky"
Priscilla Ahn - "Dream"
Rachel Yamagata - "Reason Why"
Snow Patrol - "Chocolate"
Sia - "Breathe Me"
Josh Radin - anything
Fine Frenzy - ditto

You get the general idea.  I lean heavily toward the "girl at a piano" and "guy with a guitar" selections for walking-around music, and poppy upbeat tunes for running or working out.  Any ideas you've got will be much-appreciated.   

Grounded

Where am I supposed to be right now?  Hmm.  Oh, wait.  That's right: Iowa!  With my family.  Preparing for my grandmother's funeral.  And yet, what's this?  I'm still in New York, sitting on my couch.  How could that be?

I left the house yesterday around three in the afternoon for a flight that was to leave LaGuardia at 5:10pm.  I got a cab quickly and made it to the terminal in record time.  When I swiped my credit card at a self-service check-in kiosk, the machine chugged and whirred and printed, and out came a "priority verification card."  As in, not a boarding pass.  I brought it with my bag to the counter and the agent glanced at it, told me to go to the gate and check in, and took my suitcase.  I had a sinking feeling. 

I went through security behind a massive pack of teenagers on a school trip; they slouched and chattered their way through the line and generally held things up with their lackadaisical ways and their excessive electronics.  When I made it to the gate, I went to the desk and presented my "priority verification card" (which would more properly be named a "GIANT SUCKER" card). 

I was told that the flight was oversold and had a weight and balance problem (it was one of those crappy regional jets that, in my mind anyway, crash all the time), and they were looking for volunteers to be bumped off the flight.  I mentioned that I had paid the full fare (fifteen hundred dollars!) and that I was traveling to a funeral.  Blank stares all around.  They told me they would try to accommodate me, but at the moment I did not have a seat confirmation, and many passengers with confirmed seats would be booted off the flight unless they got at least eight volunteers to give up their seats.

It was fairly clear at that point that I would be going nowhere, so after making a couple of calls, I strode up to the desk and told them I'd be happy to give up my "priority verification" in exchange for an actual seat on an actual flight the next day (Sunday).  No chance, they told me.  Sunday flights to Des Moines (as well as Omaha, Chicago, and Kansas City, in case you were wondering) were all booked and, in fact, would be in a similar oversell situation so even if they booked me on those, I'd likely end up in the same situation.  Basically, anyone trying to get to the Midwest this weekend on an airline that starts with "A" and ends with "merican" was screwed. 

As you might imagine, there was some unrest in the boarding area.   One couple had been trying for days to get home from a vacation in Belize and had already spent an unexpected night in Miami, only to end up routed through New York and now faced another unscheduled stayover.  Another guy had to get to Iowa to meet up with his band and catch an international flight to kick off their tour.  A family of three had been at LaGuardia since 6AM on Friday, having been stranded there by the snowstorm in Chicago.

Fortunately for the gate agents, everyone there but me was a Midwesterner, and I at least have a Midwestern sensibility.  For the most part, people were calm and fatalistic about the whole thing, quietly resigned to whatever fate the airline gods had in mind for them.  Had they been dealing with a horde of New Yorkers, I am certain that one of them would have ended up in a full body cast.  There would have been shouting and table-pounding and jockeying for position, each person convinced that their situation was the most dire of all.  Tear gas would have been required.  Instead, everyone queued up in a tired manner and waited to be dealt their hotel vouchers and rebooked itineraries.  I took my meager compensation ($250 for future travel, yippee), retrieved my bag and hopped in another cab to head home.

The best they could do for me was a 6AM flight for Monday morning, through St. Louis, which means that (1) I am going to have to get up BEFORE FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING tomorrow; and (2) I will be spending just over 24 hours with my family.  Awesome.  (On the bright side, I got to spend Easter morning at my church, which was lovely, and then I saw Tina Fey at H&H Bagels when I stopped to get some lunch on the way home.)

I'm sympathetic to the airlines to a small degree in that I know they are financially strapped, and on an individual level they deal with rude people day in and day out -- no matter what they do, someone is always dissatisfied with their experience in the (un)friendly skies.  I try to be upbeat and polite and understanding with customer service types, even when I'm getting royally screwed (unless they are rude, in which case the gloves come off), and I don't engage in the Importance Olympics of coercing people into believing that I should be exempt from the problem because of X, Y or Z. 

But some of these practices defy all good sense, like overbooking flights on tiny jets that, as it is, cannot always be filled to capacity with passengers because of weight restrictions and cargo requirements.  Between this aborted trip, being arbitrarily and unexpectedly deprived of our first class seats on our trip to Mexico a couple of months ago, and having to spend a couple of harrowing days chasing down our luggage and wearing sink-washed underwear in Spain last summer, I'm feeling a bit beaten down by the whole airline industry.  And if my crazy-early flight on a crappy regional jet crashes tomorrow, I'm going to be extremely pissed.   

Peace

My grandmother died today, just after noon.  She had been in declining health for some time, and when her vital signs began to fail yesterday, the family started to make travel arrangements and preparations for her leaving us. 

My mom and both of her sisters were able to be there with Grammie at the moment she died.  Mom and her sisters were laughing (as they are wont to do when gathered together) and talking and crying a bit while Grammie lay unconscious in her bed.  They held her hand and gave her strict instructions of what she needs to work on when she is with God (most particularly, getting us our baby!).  Then my mom told her that her children were safe and that we are all okay.  And then my grandmother took her last breath. 

In her final months and weeks, Grammie never lost her wry sense of humor.  When my aunt went to see her one day not long ago, Grammie was laying very still, such that it looked as though she might have already passed on.  My aunt hesitated by the doorway.  Grammie sensed her presence and said, "I'm not dead.  Don't spend my money yet!" 

Not to make it all about me, but I do believe that, now that she has passed on, she will make our referral happen in short order.  Although she had dementia that stole her memory over the last few years, bit by bit, and sometimes she confused which daughter was with her or where she was and what the year was, she continually asked if my husband and I had our baby yet.  Clearly, this is a mission she knew would be hers.  I am sad that I won't get to see her face when we find out who our daughter is; but I know that she will be here with us in spirit and, in fact, she is probably watching over our baby girl right now.

My grandmother was a tremendous woman.  She was born into an Iowa banking family and went to Washington after college to work for a Senator.  In DC, she met my grandfather, a dashing West Point graduate from upstate New York, who had recently returned from the War.  They had a whirlwind romance and married within a few months of meeting in the Cadet Chapel at West Point.  They drove away from their wedding in the same model Packard that my husband and I rode in at ours. 

As a military wife, Grammie learned to throw a household together in record time; shortly after being married, my grandparents moved overseas to Germany, where my grandfather assisted in rebuilding efforts in Munich.  My mom was born there, and over the years they had two more daughters and lived in dozens of towns all over the US and in Germany.  Eventually, they settled in Des Moines, not far from where Grammie had grown up. 

Grammie was a consummate lady, always knowing how to dress (look sharp, as she would say) and present oneself and be a good hostess and keep a home; but she was no passive housewife -- she had a phenomenal strength, wit and warmth as well as grace and polish.  She and my grandfather had a hilarious banter between them, always poking fun and making wisecracks at one another; but their love and devotion to one another was apparent to anyone who met them. 

She was equally devoted to her children and grandchildren and, more recently, great-grandchildren, as well as to her community.  She had a tireless dedication to public service, always volunteering for local hospitals, women's organizations and church groups.  She was a woman of faith, an active member of her Congregationalist church, one that welcomes people of all backgrounds and persuasions.  It is somehow appropriate that she passed away on Good Friday, and that her death will reunite her family for Easter.   

I am sure that she was able to pass on to the next life with the comfort that she had completed all that she was meant to do in her time here.

(This photo is from our big family gathering last Memorial Day.)

I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon and I'll be in Iowa through Tuesday.  Happy Easter to all who celebrate, happy weekend to those who don't, and I'll be back sometime next week! 

Singular Sensation

Yoga was not nearly the disaster I thought it would be, although it was not a raging success, either.  You might think that, as a former dancer, I would have some modicum of balance and/or strength, but those qualities seem to have taken their leave of my body some time ago.  I had some serious jackhammer leg going on in the lunge-based poses, and I couldn't hold the one-legged ones for more than about three seconds without wildly cartwheeling my limbs and stumbling off the side of my mat.  It was, as you might imagine, somewhat noticeable in the hushed stillness of the studio. 

The teacher must have said 87 times (ostensibly to the class but really just to me), "If you're new to yoga practice, you can [do this in a really pansy-ass manner instead of the real way]."  (Cathy, I should note, kicked butt; she was rock-solid in the poses and followed all the instructions perfectly, while I was rubber-necking around, all, my heart center, wha? do what now?)  But!  I will soldier forth and continue this new venture, because it will (hopefully) give me some tone and remind my muscles what it was like to be flexible (oh, the long, long ago days of splits and heel-in-hand stretches). 

As we were waiting for class, there was some kind of dance-based workout thing going on in the studio, and while we were watching I realized that the guy leading the class had been my jazz teacher when I studied at Princeton Ballet about eight thousand years ago, the summer between tenth and eleventh grade. 

It seems so insignificant, since I think we only had his class a couple of times that whole summer, but I could never forget him.  He strode into our first class wearing these white -- WHITE -- spandex dance pants that were beyond skin-tight; they were organ-tight.  To a bunch of innocent, delicate ballerina flowers such as we were, those pants could only be described as, ah, educational.  (And we're talking here about girls who are frequently around men in tights -- they were TIGHTER THAN TIGHTS.)  Then there was the class itself, which was super-Broadway style and he launched right into the Fosse-esque booty-shaking and jazz-hand-waving, so really the entire enounter I had with him was traumatic. 

And now I can take his class at my gym (he has a bunch of cardio-jazz type things on the schedule), which seems oddly full-circle, in a way.  Thankfully, he appears to have gone toward all-black garb in his older, paunchier, balder age. 

Also, despite having sworn off "American Idol" earlier this year, I have been sucked in yet again, as always.  I am rather in love with Brooke White.  She is just so NICE, so pure and sweet and genuine and NICE, yet she doesn't seem boring (which is, I'm afraid, the uglier side of nice -- sorry, but it's true; I have met some nicey nice nice folks who can be death when it comes to conversation and humor).  She and her niceness are almost absurdly refreshing.  Are people that insanely NICE where you live?  Because maybe I should move there.  (NICE!) 

I won't go further with the Idol stuff, except to note that, if I were about 12 years younger and found myself in college with Jason Castro, I would have a CRAZY MAD CRUSH on him.  (If, that is, he didn't have the dreads; I am not and have never been into dreads).  Between the cheekbones and the smooth skin and the eyes and the slightly self-conscious manner and the total non-threateningness, he pretty much epitomizes what I found irresistable in a boy in my college years.  {girlish giggle}  {swoon!} 

I'll probably be incommunicado for a few days while I go about the business of all the pre-Easter and Easter observations and festivities and whatnot, and whether or not you celebrate this holiday, I hope you get to eat some Cadbury Creme Eggs and Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs and the like, for there is little tastier in the world than candy in the form of bunnies and eggs and other rebirth/renewal symbols.  Whee! 

Just Don't Say Om

I've finally taken matters into my own hands and joined a gym.  The motivation to run on a reasonably regular basis seems to have taken a steep decline over the past few months, and over the weekend I got a sudden surge of energy (probably related to the increase in daylight hours) and decided to go for it, to broaden my fitness opportunities and give myself a slight kick in the pants.  So now, I have yoga and Pilates and yogalates at my disposal along with ellipticals, weights and medicine balls.  And of course I still have Central Park for running, which is lovely and all, but at my new shiny gym, I can watch "America's Next Top Model" while churning away on a machine -- undeniably a huge bonus. 

The gym is very circus-like, isn't it?  I mean, for people-watching, it doesn't get much better; everyone's neuroses are right there on display, reflected in all the mirrors and amplified by the tight clothing and the sweat.  There are those who preen as they heft weights, gazing lovingly at themselves, their veins pulsing against thin, bronzed skin.  There are the voyeurs, staring at everyone else, enjoying the view of lots of women in spandex, and the exhibitionists, looking around to see who's watching them.  There are the obsessive types, shame written all over them as they hunch over a machine, head down, their legs racing furiously against some imaginary ideal. 

It's all just so weird in a way, going to this place -- this building -- to burn off calories, with hundreds of people sweating all over the place in the same air space.  I've gone to various gyms over the years, and then switched to running when we bought our place and moved close to the park.  Running seems more natural in a lot of ways, being out in the air and the sunlight; but a girl can't live on running alone.  Or she can, but I don't feel like being that girl anymore, and living on running alone is not doing my butt any favors lately. 

(Seriously, I went shopping this weekend, and the brutal lighting in the Banana Republic dressing rooms does not lie; it doesn't even attempt to sugarcoat the truth.  In fact, it slapped me around several times and told me I was hideously pasty and that my upper thighs are dimpled.  So I bought a trench coat, the only thing that could possibly flatter what I saw in that mirror.  Well, and some pants, but they were on sale and appear to have magical butt-flattering qualities.)

I'm going to try vinyasa yoga at the gym tomorrow night (with Cathy, yay!), and there's a very good chance that I'll find a way to humiliate myself in the span of the 60-minute class.  I haven't done much yoga to date, just a few sun salutations here and there in movement class when I was studying acting, and I wasn't especially good at it even in that limited experience. 

I think I had trouble taking it as seriously as you're supposed to -- like the "breath of fire" thing, where you're sort of panting through your nose, just made me kind of dizzy and giggly, and I can promise you that if I were asked to chant I would feel like a giant goof.  It's sort of like when I used to have modern class amid all my ballet bunhead classes; they always wanted us to be earthy and swoop around and make strange, "organic" noises ("unka unnngh", "chaka chaaaaa", that sort of thing), and I just felt like a colossal ass.  Because, generally speaking, I am rigid and self-conscious, while everyone else is able to let go and get into it.    

Mostly, though, I have no doubt that I will fall on my head at some point, and/or, have ah...well, one of those bodily, er, exhalations that everyone dreads in a context such as this.  (I know we are all supposed to be adult and mature about these things, and it isn't a big deal in the grand scheme, but let's all be honest here -- no one wants to be That Girl in yoga class, right?). 

Despite all this, I'm looking forward to it, to try something new and hopefully get some toning/slimming/increased flexibility to boot.  And at least I'll have a friend there to help me up off the floor when I collapse in the middle of the bridge.   

Endurance

I'm lying on my back, my bare skin sticking to the rosin-covered floor.  My feet are hooked through the barre above me.  I reach up and rub my arch, my fingers pressing into swollen flesh.  I'm so exhausted I feel like I could disappear.  I push onto my sharp elbows, unhook my feet, and splay my legs into a split before groaning my way off the floor.  I adjust my baggy knit shorts, releve a few times to get my body back to life.  My toes are raw with blisters, gaping sores that chafe against the stiffness of my shoes.  The pain shoots up my legs, searing ever nerve and fiber until I can feel the pain in my mouth.  We start and stop, start and stop, start and stop.  I get corrections and adjustments, directions for hands, arms, feet.  After the tenth repetition, I look down and see blood seeping through pink satin.   

That night, I rub salt into the weeping wounds as I bite into a towel.  I swallow a fistful of Advil with a swig of Diet Coke and drag an eyeliner pencil across my lid.  I wrap fresh tape around each toe, double-taping the one with the stress fracture.  I spray my hair again, check my teeth for lipstick.  I stand in the stage door with my leg pressed against the doorframe, my foot high above my head.  In the wings, I test my shoes, press rosin against my heels.  I shift my feet around, trying to find a measure of comfort, a way of standing that doesn't feel like every cell in my body is being torn to pieces. 

I breathe in, pull up, and walk (turn out, turn out, turn out) into the blaze of light. 

______________________________

My alarm shrieks into the dark silence, chasing my dream into oblivion.  I smack the radio and slide out of bed.  I tie on my running shoes and slip into the bright hallway.  Outside, the cold air scours my face as I run.  At the field house, I climb to the loft and lower myself onto an erg.  I am certain I won't be able to do it; I'll never make it, it's not possible.  I strap my feet in and pick up the handle. 

A whistle blasts, and I spring out of the catch position.  Halfway through, my legs are on fire, they're starting to shake with fatigue.  My arms and back are screaming.  I'm going to throw up.  Someone next to me passes out and falls off her erg.  Another girl yells for the bucket, then vomits loudly, barely breaking the rhythm of her rowing.  I count strokes, try to ignore the clock ticking down, try not to think of how much is left.  I divide the remaining time and distance up in my mind, taking it in tiny chunks, getting through ten seconds at a time.  The coxswains shout encouragement, urging us on.  One of the coaches squats next to me.  She reads the pain on my face.  She speaks quietly into my ear.   

The other girls outweigh me by fifty pounds, but I beat them.  That spring, after collecting our medals, we hoist our cox over our shoulders, then run down the dock and toss her into the river.

______________________________

I feel invinceable as I stand on the bridge under the helicopters and the fly-overs.  I'm ready.  I soar through Brooklyn.  I feel like skipping through Greenpoint.  After the Pulaski Street Bridge, I start to hurt.  My stomach, my ankle, my hips.  I'm too hot.  I'm nauseous.  I have a stitch in my side that folds me in half.  By mile 18, each time my foot hits the pavement, the shock reverberates through my body.  I can't think of anything worse than continuing.  I have so many miles left; to keep putting my feet to the ground for all that time is intolerable. 

In the Bronx, I walk.  I cry.  I want to lie down against the curb and go to sleep.  One step, then another.  Then another.  Another.  I break into a chugging jog.  As we enter the park, I push into a run.  I feel like I might as well be standing still.  Everything hurts, to a degree that's beyond anything sensible.  I turn up my music and squint into the sun. 

______________________________

I flip on my office light and settle in front of my computer.  I putter through emails, work.  I glance at the phone.  I check the time.  The day clicks on.  I sip my diet soda, crunch my baby carrots.  More email, more work, a blog diversion or two, or more.  Clock, phone, check, check.  The boats in the harbor turn gold in the late afternoon light.  There's still time; they're an hour earlier.  The sun sinks.  I shut down, repack my bag, lurch toward the elevator.  I trudge to the subway, feeling bleary.  Still nothing.  I am lifeless.  My body aches.   Another weekend approaches.  Another holiday.   There's one more setback, then another. 

I think I can see the finish line, then it's gone.  It shimmers in the distance, then disappears; it reappears, then moves away.  At night, as I fall asleep, I can feel her next to me, her rumpled dress under my hand as I rub her round belly.  I hear her tiny cry, it's tinny and far away.  I feel her maybe-dimpled cheek next to mine.  I see her wriggling on a garish pink blanket.  She's blurry and indistinct.  For now.  I press on. 

Question Mark

As a follow-up to my last post, I should note that I think a lot about what I want our life to look like in the long term, and what I want our kids' lives to look like and that sort of thing.  Problematically, my chronic overthinking comes into play, and I can't ever figure out which of many imagined lives is the most appealing.

There's the New York life, for example.  In theory, anyway, we would stay in Manhattan, in our same neighborhood, gradually making our way up the real estate ladder to progressively larger apartments.  Our kids would go to Montessori preschool, then magically gain admittance to one of the preferred private schools.  They would take advantage of all the stuff that I would have drooled to have at my disposal growing up, and more: studying at the School of American Ballet, playing soccer in the Central Park leagues, spending Saturdays in museums, taking Vietnamese lessons at the language and culture school in Chinatown, doing internships at the UN.  We'd have a country house somewhere, maybe on a lake or the beach, and the kids would go to cool summer camps.  We would travel a lot, visiting family and friends and exploring the world.  The kids would become sophisticated and accomplished, they'd be part of a big, vibrant, diverse environment; but (I hope) our down-home values, plus our loving extended family and our church and such would keep them grounded.  (Oooh, and they wouldn't have to drive, a huge plus since I am convinced that living outside the city means deadly car accidents and school shootings -- ridiculous, I know, but it's how my mind works.)

On the flip side of all that, we'd need to keep our same jobs -- or something along those lines -- to afford that lifestyle.  Our kids could fall victim to the hyper-competitive thing that goes on here and become total stress cases at age thirteen.  They might feel like poor relations at school since we aren't in finance or part of high society.  They might become snooty, overly urbane.  We'll have to work hard to keep their sense of a coherent family life, with our far-flung friends and relatives and our demanding jobs.

Then there's, say, the Down South life.  We could live close to Allison, David and Maggie, or to my parents, or somewhere in between.  If we were in Charlotte, we could have some of the trappings of a smallish city but be able to have a good-sized house, get together with our best friends whenever we want, watch our kids grow up together and be within a reasonable drive of my parents.  Charlotte has some good schools and a diverse population.  The climate is a touch warm for my taste, but they still have seasons, and we could spend summer weekends on the Outer Banks or the cooler climes of Asheville (with Allison & Co., obviously!).   

But.  THE DRIVING.  After living here for so long, taking the subway everywhere or getting around by foot, it would be tough to adjust to having to hop in the car to go buy a bagel or shuttle kids around.  Charlotte has a little bit of the Atlanta complex going on, where the city grows by sprawling all over the place, and the next thing you know you have a crazy commute and spend ages sitting in traffic. 

Then there's the Small Town life.  Say we somehow found some means of livelihood in the town where I grew up (which is hard to imagine, since commercial litigation is not a booming part of the local economy), we could live in a renovated Craftsman or Victorian house in the historic downtown area, which is within walking distance of a lot of stuff (although people would probably break their necks staring at the freaky people using their legs to get around instead of a car).  I could take adult ballet classes at my old studio and act in the town theater group.  There would be Girl Scouts, swimming lessons, youth group -- oh, and LOTS of grandparent time (also free babysitting -- woo!). 

On the other hand, going back to one's hometown could be...confining, in a way.  I could not WAIT to get out of there when I was growing up.  Just couldn't wait.  I love going back there and seeing people I know, seeing people who care about me and support me, but living there is a different story.  It's diverse, but not VERY diverse, at least not in terms of interracially adopted kids or Asian kids in general (though that is changing, slowly).  And it would be very weird to have a former football player from my graduating class, who never struck me as the brightest bulb, teaching my kid social studies.

Then there is the X option, the various cities that seem cool but we don't know them super-well, like Portland or SF (I've been there, but under weird circumstances and I didn't get a real feel for it) or Chicago (LOVE, love; I would move there in a second), or...I don't know, some college town somewhere -- Boulder, maybe. 

The upsides to, say, a Chicago would be that it's a great city but more manageable and liveable than New York in some ways (cost, for example).  For some reason, even the suburbs of Chicago seem more acceptable to me than the New York 'burbs do.  I love the Midwest, the cleanliness and hominess and NICEness of it all.  We could take road trips to the dunes on the Great Lakes, just like my family did when I was a kid; we could go for football weekends in Ann Arbor.  We'd still have a major airport nearby.  We have some friends there, and some family.  I guess the biggest problem is that we'd have to stick with law firm-type jobs, and we wouldn't exactly be getting an upgrade on weather (this is my husband's principal objection to Chicago, by the way -- he is big on weather). 

So that's pretty much the dilemma.  I know I need to chill out.  I need to enjoy the here and now and let things unfold, especially for the near term while we (ONE DAY) get settled with our baby.  But you can see how there's a lot here to keep my mind occupied (especially as the wait goes ON AND ON). 

What do you think -- if you could live anywhere, where would it be, and why?  Any further insights also appreciated. 

You guys rule.

Unsettled

When Cathy and I get together, we often find ourselves having the "what are we going to DO?" conversation.  We're not unhappy or anything -- we both have good, stable jobs, marriages, families, etc. -- but the existential crisis appears to be ongoing for both of us.  The central issue, really, is living in New York, and whether it's possible to hack it for the long haul.

As you all have gathered by now, I love it here.  For the most part.  A lot of the time.  Even though the guy next to me on the subway the other day was reading his paper all spread-eagled and kept hitting me with his elbow, and then he started digging in his ear for wax, which he proceeded to wipe on the lapel of his coat. 

But few people settle in Manhattan for good, mostly because the real estate is so expensive, but also because people decide they want more space, a backyard, a Target.  I don't really crave any of those things so much (well, an extra bedroom, maybe), and many of the trappings of suburban/exurban living do not appeal to me in the slightest; I have no desire to take on a brutal commute just to have a whole house instead of an apartment. 

When I moved here I didn't think of it as a permanent thing -- I suppose because most people don't consider it to be a permanent thing, so why should I?  In fact, I'm not sure I gave it much thought at all.  I remember in college I would imagine my life-to-be, and it involved a white picket fence and a Volvo and a summer house on Nantucket.  In my daydream life, my as-yet-unknown-husband and I would alternate holidays and summer getaways with each of our families. His family would be fresh-faced and jocular; they would play touch football in fisherman's sweaters and jeans on a sprawling lawn by the ocean.  In the evenings we would drink wine and eat homemade pie and laugh uproariously by a fire, and I would trade clothes with my mystery husband's sister(s).   

Location-wise, I guess I thought that my future husband would get jobs in different places and I would go with him and do whatever I was going to do (write, I suppose, and drive the kids to and from ballet and violin lessons in the aforementioned Volvo) in those places.  That's basically what my parents did -- my dad's career led us to relocate a few times, and in each new place my mom was able to pick up teaching and community service and so forth without a break in her stride.  The model of going someplace and simply staying there wasn't something I thought about. 

Almost eleven years later, I'm still here, and despite the absence of a Volvo or a Kennedy-esque family-in-law, we have no immediate plans to leave -- and if we did want to leave, it's unlikely to be by some happenstance; we would have to make the decision to get out of here and then make it happen. 

The odd thing is, New York feels like home now.  I like the instant gratification of being here, the laziness it permits, and the convenience of mass transit.  I have friends here (not a ton of them since so many have left, but they're good friends, and I'm branching out and meeting new people, too, like Molly -- we met on Saturday for coffee, and she's smart and cool and thoughtful, and I am so glad to have her in our 'hood so we can have drinks and chat and meet each others' dogs).  I'm establishing a community for us and our future family through church and that sort of thing.  I think this is a great place to have kids (except for the whole space thing and the cutthroat preschool admissions thing, but that's another story) because of all the stuff to do and the park and the proximity to whatever you want.  And we own a comfortable apartment, blah blah. 

Even so, when we go to other cities and states, I think about whether I could live there.  I frequently look at real estate websites in far-flung cities -- including some we've never even visited -- and ponder what kind of house and lifestyle we might have in Portland or Charlotte or San Francisco or Chicago or Atlanta; I search for Montessori schools and ballet studios and Vietnamese cultural centers for our daughter, possible employers for us, and a thriving art/food/cuture scene for the entire family.  I ponder whether the lower cost of living would mean I could write or open my bakery/book shop or take a class at a local university.  But I don't act on these things -- I don't send out resumes or contact realtors or anything.  I just think about them.

Ultimately, I'm not sure if I simply need to know that there are other options out there, that if this city has its way with us and tosses us out on our butts, we'll have a backup, a place to go, a pretty life waiting for us somewhere.  I don't know if it's that I really WANT to live elsewhere and do other things; rather, it's that maybe one day I will want to or have to for some reason.  Or perhaps it's just a New York Thing, being uncertain and unconvinced and a little unsatisfied about the whole thing, just like you're always sure that someone else got the best table in the restaurant or the last warm bagel. 

I worry to some degree that, being this way, I'm taking away from my enjoyment of the life we have now, and the life we're likely to have for the foreseeable future; still, it's hard to imagine shutting it all out and treating this as 100% permanent. But who knows; maybe one day, amid all this searching, the answer will simply present itself, and it will be clear as day what and who and where I'm meant to be, at least for the next stretch of years.  Or maybe it will be clear that I'm already there.   

Console Me With Deliciousness

It's been a long week (work, vomity dog, sleepless nights, phone not ringing).   

Fortunately, in addition to my email buddies, I had this to keep me company through the endless, brutal days:

Oh, mama.  A few slices of this buttery, blueberry-y, frosted goodness, and I felt like I could have hoisted my entire office building over my head and run circuits around Manhattan. 

My friends, bless them, also sent me some special St. Patty's Day Mint Thumbprint cookies.  Brilliant.  Buttery, slightly nutty, and a hint of mint. Oh, yes.

I hoarded some of each in my office and set the rest out in the pantry to share, and about ten seconds later, there wasn't a crumb left of anything.  It has been confirmed: the Danes dominate in New York just as they do...well, in Denmark.  And the American Midwest.  And Greenland.  Skol!

(I need some new topics up in here, I realize.  Waiting for a referral and eating pastry can only bring me so far.  Eh.)   

Needed: Wife

Being the first one home at the end of the day is rough in our household.  You have to hustle the dog outside for a walk, feed the animals, turn the bathroom faucet on so HRH the Cat can have a drink of water, cook dinner (which may involve one or more of the following: deciding what to make, gathering ingredients from fridge/cupboards, boiling water, chopping vegetables, sauteeing, preheating oven, grating cheese), and change clothes (don't you wish your clothes could just morph into comfy sweats?  I hate all the undressing and putting away and so forth). 

The dishwasher usually needs to be emptied, too, and that ranks up there with cleaning out the cat litter as Most Hated Household Task (I'm not sure exactly why; it's all the loud plate-banging or the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, I guess -- it exhausts me) and seems to have to be done every dang day, even though we are just two people. 

Oh, and more than half the time, I go to toss out the remnants of the dog's daytime meal only to find the garbage overflowing, so then there is the pulling out of the overstuffed, usually tearing-in-multiple-places bag and the getting of the new bag and the careful folding and pleating of the new bag so that it is securely under the flip-up lid and won't collapse to the bottom when you throw the first thing in there. 

For me, all of this must be accomplished while I am on the verge of a comatose state due to my plummeting blood sugar, so I have been known, amid the chaos, to dump a bunch of Reese's peanut butter chips down my throat or inhale half a roll of Ritz crackers just to get through it.  If I'm especially ravenous and/or PMSing, there is always the possibility that something minor will go awry in my effort to calm the beast of day-end domesticity -- I might spill some cat food on the floor, for example, or be unable to get the pasta sauce open -- and I will start that huffy, gaspy panic-cry of frustration, all whyyyy meeeee, which never fails to make me feel like a giant idiot yet somehow cannot be avoided.  

I think it's clear that, when the baby is here (ELEVEN MONTHS waiting, y'all), this is going to become a crisis-level situation, as the tasks will expand exponentially.  There will be picking the baby up from "school", walking the dog with the baby, feeding the animals while entertaining the baby, changing the baby's clothes/diaper, making the baby's dinner, feeding the baby (no doubt while the cat wails from the bathroom for his faucet water), cooking our dinner, playing with the baby, bathing the baby, and putting the baby to bed.

Let it be said -- although it should go without saying -- that I will be thrilled to have a baby to do all of these things with and for, and a lot of these are the moments I look forward to the most about parenting (bathtime, playtime, storytime/bedtime).  But looking at things pragmatically, there will be a new level of chaos in our post-work routine.  (This assumes she will be in a daycare situation; if we go with a nanny instead, then the nanny can help with some of this stuff.) 

I do plan on working a reduced schedule, so I'll be getting home earlier, which makes for a less compressed evening.  And I fully expect that my husband will do his part and share the load, but as I said, we don't always get home at the same time, and when he gets home first he seems to handle the pile of tasks better than I do (in part because he doesn't get all fainty and emotional when he needs a meal).

As a general matter, by the way, the hubs and I split the household tasks very evenly (without trying or making a thing of it, actually).  I plan the meals, cook and do the shopping; he walks the dog more than I do and takes care of all things financial; we both neaten up, take out the trash, unload the dishwasher, clean out the cat litter (actually, he does that more than I do, too, bless him), pick up/drop off the laundry and dry cleaning, and so on.    

I'm curious -- whether or not you have kids, how do you divide your household labor?  And does anyone else feel crushed sometimes by their early evening and/or post-work tasks, or am I a whiny loser?