Just one more politically-minded post, and I promise to get back to the stuff that matters. You know, falling down stairs, going to a strip club for "feminist research," figuring out to ask out my extremely alluring hairdresser.
But.
Last night was an extremely elating experience (especially in New York, where circa four million of the six million votes went to Obama) - as if we - as a country, a people, and a democracy clawing to remain above water - delivered on a collective dream. What this election did more than anything was reignite the fire in Americanism. While 9/11 surged a wave of "patriotism" through the streets, it was a patriotism rooted in a fear, and consequently led to intensified racism, an unjust war, and an economic crisis I truly believe birthed out of panic. Obama's campaign roused an energy that touched even the staunchest of conservatives in that their perceived threat prompted a reaction. And isn't this the point of democracy? To place views and policies on the table and for people to dissect, disagree, challenge them?
In 2004, I remember an utter lack of caring. I can't count how many people I knew who "actively abstained" because they could not fathom supporting either candidate. When politicians evoke paralysis of opinion, we know there is a problem. Despite the accumulating holes in McCain's campaign and policy agenda (and his recent falterings really were too bad. Ahem, Sarah.), he was successful in stirring his own pot, and taking an active role in invigorating the American voters. I think we, as Americans, have been extremely lucky over the past year as these candidates have emerged as leaders and worked to steer America in a new, modernized direction. I don't think McCain was by any means the villain in this election; I think he was a crucial element to Obama's success because he embodied everything Obama was challenging. Obama has pledged the importance of true social reform, McCain dug his heels deeper into current social policy. Obama has made critical the point that Main Street must survive if Wall Street is to prosper, and McCain alleged Obama to be a modern-day Robin Hood. With Bush and Kerry, both men were so pathetically flaccid, when debates occurred, I felt like I was watching two spoiled, ivy league frat boys compete over whiskey shots. There is absolutely nothing wrong with said frat boys in said competition, just organize a campus-wide beer pong tournament like everybody else. I don't want to see my President as a beer-guzzling party animal. I have enough of those in my life. I want to revere the President; perceive him as a little different from others. The kind of different that at least fools me into believing their are capable of steering an entire country off the road to whatever those right-wing Christian fundamentalists thinks will happen to the gays.
All in, I don't think republicans should curse the results - regardless of the off-putting liberal fiscal policies, I think it is in the (I can't say our, I mean honestly.) children's best interest that for the first time, an African American man was elected as President. This is the first time in many years that social change is coming from the top down, and I think this revised model will be incalculably beneficial in the long run. It is impossible to teach children about social liberties if only a small percentage of them can fathom owning their own opportunities.
I think this is an exciting day - teeming with anticipation and possibility of what is to come.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Compromise
November 4th will only deliver good news. Either we get Barack Obama, or we get four years of Tina Fey impersonating Palin. Laugh through the tears, right?
Actually, I laugh through the tears at the red suit the GOP spent $75K on for Sarah. A genuine Saks Fifth Avenue purchase! Oh my! Who woulda thunk a hockey mom from Alaska would don a gen-u-ine outfit from Saks - all the way from New York! Joe Sixpack, look out - Sarah's on the prowl, and she's lookin' for you.
**
What concerns me the most is that I not only prefer Tina Fey's impersonation to the actual woman, I forget that somewhere outside the elite media's radar, she's actually contributing to the Republican campaign. I forget she's real, and thus a threat to most civil liberties I've spent my little idealistic, anti-American-residing-in-new-England-life enjoying. It's interesting, though, to think about the bullheadd ways in which she's standing behind her beliefs. She does not believe in abortion; she does not believe in sex education. Consequently, her daughter, seventeen and pregnant, will wed her boyfriend, a fun-loving hockey player who, I bet, did not see this coming one year ago. Is this kind of loyalty to one's convictions admirable, when beliefs override someone else's best interest? At what point does it change from loyalty to stubbornness? Flexibility and willingness to adopt other viewpoints, especially in the best interest of a loved one, are pinnacle to one's character. With versatility we don't stand a chance in upholding relationships, because everytime we hit disagreement, the only choice is to walk away. Same with political character. Politicians cannot simply "walk away" when someone (or, another country) does or decides on something they disagree with. I'm not comfortable with someone in office - someone "in charge of the senate" - who so stands by her beliefs that she was willing to publicly end her daughter's childhood.
Teenagers are morons. We all know this, we were all teenagers once. Hell on most days I still feel like a teenager. But the best part about teenagers is that they're transient. Adults will, however long it takes, ultimately emerge. Thus, how crucial it is to cushion some of their fall - no, I'm not saying kids that should be blindly forgiven and given a free pass whenever they mess-up. But, what parents have that children don't is perspective. My parents were careful to express their perspectives - versus their beliefs - in such a way that motivated me to to craft my own, and consequently, I always felt sure that my emerging identity (or, adulthood) was safe. While the President and the VP are not meant to be our parents, they are meant to present the sort of perspective that presents the possibility of change. The Republican social agenda, as it stands, emits a sense of social suffocation and paralysis. When a President is not willing to generate change, there is little left for us to do but sit and wait for the next election year. We're one of the freest nations on the planet. This kind of outlook is devastating. Further, if there's someone in office who would rather see her daughter married than revise her opinion regarding sex ed in high schools, I can't imagine where she'll stand in the name of a billion strangers.
Forget Palin going against feminist beliefs (and then ironically becoming iconicly feminist), or misspeaking as if Alaska employs a different language. What scares me the most is that she agreed to be co-pilot when she has no idea how to fly.
Actually, I laugh through the tears at the red suit the GOP spent $75K on for Sarah. A genuine Saks Fifth Avenue purchase! Oh my! Who woulda thunk a hockey mom from Alaska would don a gen-u-ine outfit from Saks - all the way from New York! Joe Sixpack, look out - Sarah's on the prowl, and she's lookin' for you.
**
What concerns me the most is that I not only prefer Tina Fey's impersonation to the actual woman, I forget that somewhere outside the elite media's radar, she's actually contributing to the Republican campaign. I forget she's real, and thus a threat to most civil liberties I've spent my little idealistic, anti-American-residing-in-new-England-life enjoying. It's interesting, though, to think about the bullheadd ways in which she's standing behind her beliefs. She does not believe in abortion; she does not believe in sex education. Consequently, her daughter, seventeen and pregnant, will wed her boyfriend, a fun-loving hockey player who, I bet, did not see this coming one year ago. Is this kind of loyalty to one's convictions admirable, when beliefs override someone else's best interest? At what point does it change from loyalty to stubbornness? Flexibility and willingness to adopt other viewpoints, especially in the best interest of a loved one, are pinnacle to one's character. With versatility we don't stand a chance in upholding relationships, because everytime we hit disagreement, the only choice is to walk away. Same with political character. Politicians cannot simply "walk away" when someone (or, another country) does or decides on something they disagree with. I'm not comfortable with someone in office - someone "in charge of the senate" - who so stands by her beliefs that she was willing to publicly end her daughter's childhood.
Teenagers are morons. We all know this, we were all teenagers once. Hell on most days I still feel like a teenager. But the best part about teenagers is that they're transient. Adults will, however long it takes, ultimately emerge. Thus, how crucial it is to cushion some of their fall - no, I'm not saying kids that should be blindly forgiven and given a free pass whenever they mess-up. But, what parents have that children don't is perspective. My parents were careful to express their perspectives - versus their beliefs - in such a way that motivated me to to craft my own, and consequently, I always felt sure that my emerging identity (or, adulthood) was safe. While the President and the VP are not meant to be our parents, they are meant to present the sort of perspective that presents the possibility of change. The Republican social agenda, as it stands, emits a sense of social suffocation and paralysis. When a President is not willing to generate change, there is little left for us to do but sit and wait for the next election year. We're one of the freest nations on the planet. This kind of outlook is devastating. Further, if there's someone in office who would rather see her daughter married than revise her opinion regarding sex ed in high schools, I can't imagine where she'll stand in the name of a billion strangers.
Forget Palin going against feminist beliefs (and then ironically becoming iconicly feminist), or misspeaking as if Alaska employs a different language. What scares me the most is that she agreed to be co-pilot when she has no idea how to fly.
In the Meantime...
Watch this. These are my friends:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XR9V_aOCga0
[Sorry, I haven't learned how to enter in hyperlinks yet]
And watch this, not because you haven't seen it before, but because you know you're desperate to see it again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFL58Jduryg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XR9V_aOCga0
[Sorry, I haven't learned how to enter in hyperlinks yet]
And watch this, not because you haven't seen it before, but because you know you're desperate to see it again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFL58Jduryg
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Do Dogs Get Bored?
The other day I asked my roommate if she thought dogs got bored. Her answer was simple: "No, because they aren't smart enough to know if they've been doing or not been doing something for hours."
She's right. Every time Beep sees her tennis ball it's like the first time. And whenever I throw her pink flamingo down the hallway, she runs as if she might not catch it. The other night we played fetch while I worked, and I must have thrown that f-ing pink flamingo seventy-five times. she.did.not.get.bored.
Here's my concern: Neither did I. I was obsessed with her properly retrieving the pink flamingo that not only was my work cast aside, each time I would throw this silly thing I would think, "Will she find it? Will she pick it up? Will she run back to me?" Yes, of course she would. Even if she couldn't remember, she'd already done it seventy-three times in the last forty-five minutes.
Perhaps I'm also nervous that almost the entire reason I humored her desire to chase said flamingo upwards of eighty times is that I felt like if I stopped, I would genuinely hurt her feelings. Let's get back to the beginning: dogs don't get bored. Chances are, they also don't get offended if their parents opt out of fetch for a little while. Or do they? My dilemma exactly. What if I'm hurting her feelings? What if, when I say "No more," and go about my Gossip Girl, Private Practice, Law & Order: SVU routine, she retreats to the corner thinking, "Does no one on this Earth love me?" How could I cause that kind of pain to such a small, innocent, sweetly-dressed animal? Am I so cruel that I would knowingly reject someone (okay, fine, something) whose second favorite thing to do (after getting a treat for using her pee-pad) is greeting me at the door?
I would like to answer plainly: No, I am not.
But still, what if I am?
This reminds me of the time my three friends gave me a swirly in eighth grade. I was in the library during study hall and they came in, saying that they really needed to tell me something, but since it was private, we should probably go to the bathroom. Then suddenly my hair was in a toilet, and I had three people holding me by the ankles.
Later that afternoon, after my Science teacher perfectly justifiably asked why my hair was wet and I didn't have a quick enough response, the four of us sat in the middle school headmistress's office with our advisers. The headmistress asked if these were the types of friends I wanted. They were, I explained triumphantly, they were just playing a joke. But they put your head in a toilet, the headmistress responded, kindly. Wait a second. She was right. They did try to flush my head in the lower-school bathroom. I hadn't even showered yet. It was the end of the day. The tip of my ponytail was... oh my god.
I responded, I think, in a perfectly appropriate fashion. I decided then and there that friends don't flush friends down the toilet. Literally, at least. The four of us left the office while the adults convened over necessary punishments. They decided that the ringleader deserved a suspension, and the remaining two would be forbidden to attend the homecoming dance. For eighth graders at an all-girl school, that was far, far worse than being suspended. The three of them looked at me incredulously, shocked at my ultimate betrayal. I might have toilet-water-stained clothing, but they weren't allowed at the dance. The Dance, they said in unison. I'm sorry, I said, but still, it was kind of crappy what you did.
Expectantly, news of this scandal reached far-and-wide across the middle school, and I was confronted with multiple people asking why I was so cruel. When I explained that I was sorry, and that I actually hadn't asked the school to suspend the ringleader, I was met with, "But the dance. It's Madonna themed." How could I do such a thing? Take a fucking shower, one especially ardent classmate told me. Thankfully we were thirteen and that meant that "situations" had a half-life of about three days. By the day of the Dance, everyone was fine. By the next Monday, we were all friends again. But a few weeks later, the three girls kindly let me know that while I was a fun and engaging friend, they couldn't quite trust me. I again apologized for admitting to the teachers that they'd given me a swirly, but they didn't want to hear it. I had betrayed their trust, and it was time to move on.
These two situations taught me something: I'm drawing a connection between my seventh-month-old puppy who loves nothing more than toys that squeak and the aftermath of a swirly in the eighth grade -- I really, really need to get a life.
She's right. Every time Beep sees her tennis ball it's like the first time. And whenever I throw her pink flamingo down the hallway, she runs as if she might not catch it. The other night we played fetch while I worked, and I must have thrown that f-ing pink flamingo seventy-five times. she.did.not.get.bored.
Here's my concern: Neither did I. I was obsessed with her properly retrieving the pink flamingo that not only was my work cast aside, each time I would throw this silly thing I would think, "Will she find it? Will she pick it up? Will she run back to me?" Yes, of course she would. Even if she couldn't remember, she'd already done it seventy-three times in the last forty-five minutes.
Perhaps I'm also nervous that almost the entire reason I humored her desire to chase said flamingo upwards of eighty times is that I felt like if I stopped, I would genuinely hurt her feelings. Let's get back to the beginning: dogs don't get bored. Chances are, they also don't get offended if their parents opt out of fetch for a little while. Or do they? My dilemma exactly. What if I'm hurting her feelings? What if, when I say "No more," and go about my Gossip Girl, Private Practice, Law & Order: SVU routine, she retreats to the corner thinking, "Does no one on this Earth love me?" How could I cause that kind of pain to such a small, innocent, sweetly-dressed animal? Am I so cruel that I would knowingly reject someone (okay, fine, something) whose second favorite thing to do (after getting a treat for using her pee-pad) is greeting me at the door?
I would like to answer plainly: No, I am not.
But still, what if I am?
This reminds me of the time my three friends gave me a swirly in eighth grade. I was in the library during study hall and they came in, saying that they really needed to tell me something, but since it was private, we should probably go to the bathroom. Then suddenly my hair was in a toilet, and I had three people holding me by the ankles.
Later that afternoon, after my Science teacher perfectly justifiably asked why my hair was wet and I didn't have a quick enough response, the four of us sat in the middle school headmistress's office with our advisers. The headmistress asked if these were the types of friends I wanted. They were, I explained triumphantly, they were just playing a joke. But they put your head in a toilet, the headmistress responded, kindly. Wait a second. She was right. They did try to flush my head in the lower-school bathroom. I hadn't even showered yet. It was the end of the day. The tip of my ponytail was... oh my god.
I responded, I think, in a perfectly appropriate fashion. I decided then and there that friends don't flush friends down the toilet. Literally, at least. The four of us left the office while the adults convened over necessary punishments. They decided that the ringleader deserved a suspension, and the remaining two would be forbidden to attend the homecoming dance. For eighth graders at an all-girl school, that was far, far worse than being suspended. The three of them looked at me incredulously, shocked at my ultimate betrayal. I might have toilet-water-stained clothing, but they weren't allowed at the dance. The Dance, they said in unison. I'm sorry, I said, but still, it was kind of crappy what you did.
Expectantly, news of this scandal reached far-and-wide across the middle school, and I was confronted with multiple people asking why I was so cruel. When I explained that I was sorry, and that I actually hadn't asked the school to suspend the ringleader, I was met with, "But the dance. It's Madonna themed." How could I do such a thing? Take a fucking shower, one especially ardent classmate told me. Thankfully we were thirteen and that meant that "situations" had a half-life of about three days. By the day of the Dance, everyone was fine. By the next Monday, we were all friends again. But a few weeks later, the three girls kindly let me know that while I was a fun and engaging friend, they couldn't quite trust me. I again apologized for admitting to the teachers that they'd given me a swirly, but they didn't want to hear it. I had betrayed their trust, and it was time to move on.
These two situations taught me something: I'm drawing a connection between my seventh-month-old puppy who loves nothing more than toys that squeak and the aftermath of a swirly in the eighth grade -- I really, really need to get a life.
I Wish I Could Turn Back Time
A friend of mine said that to her boss a few weeks ago, and I think it reigns as the all-time best response after making a mistake. What's better, my friend didn't make a mistake. Her boss asked for one thing and then changed her mind.
"I wish I could turn back time." I just like to practice saying it.
Sometimes I wonder if powerful people forget that while us young grasshoppers are willing to learn anything and do most things in hopes for successful careers, at no time are we capable of predicting, controlling, or resolving Manhattan traffic. Or any city traffic, for that matter. But perhaps this is part of the joke: if we could, we probably wouldn't be asked to sit in the same seat for so long.
"I wish I could turn back time." I just like to practice saying it.
Sometimes I wonder if powerful people forget that while us young grasshoppers are willing to learn anything and do most things in hopes for successful careers, at no time are we capable of predicting, controlling, or resolving Manhattan traffic. Or any city traffic, for that matter. But perhaps this is part of the joke: if we could, we probably wouldn't be asked to sit in the same seat for so long.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Bridging the Gap
This past weekend I was lucky enough to sit next to my grandmother for dinner. It should be noted that while she joined our family only a mere thirteen years ago, she is absolutely part of the family, and thus I pay the same respect to her as I would anyone from the grandparent generation.
However, it should also be noted that she tends to avoid - at all costs - ever paying me a straight, direct, just-so-you-feel-good compliment. For instance, last Christmas, instead of saying that my haircut looked nice she said, "I love your haircut because your last one really fell on your face at all the wrong angles." Oh, okay, thanks.
Or, earlier this summer at a family BBQ, instead of saying I looked nice she said, "You look great, you must have lost weight because your figure is finally beginning to show." Er, I've been the same weight for three years, but yes, thanks.
Last Saturday was no different. Except this time I must give her the credit and mention that our conversation was extremely positive, and she did, ultimately, say some very nice things. But this was my favorite:
We were talking about how my politics and lifestyle may, er, deviate from the rest of my family. I was a little confused as to what she was talking about because we haven't really had "the talk" that would merit this statement, but I went with it. I agreed, and said, yes, I was a bit more liberal than the others but I really didn't think family needed to revolve around vice-presidential nominations. She responds,
"You're absolutely right, and I really respect your ability to bridge the two worlds. I have every confidence that if you started dating an affluent boy from Newport, you would absolutely hold your own, despite your not understanding his background."
She was right. I mean, just that afternoon my family had taken a cruise on my uncle's yacht to check out the palaces that skimmed the Newport coastline. What simpletons we were, sipping white wine and nibbling crab cakes, reaching for our cable knit sweaters and country-club-specific fleeces when the wind picked up just before sunset.
I wondered what my boyfriend in Newport would look like; if his house was on the water, or simply at the end of a private drive. Would his parents both work, or would one stay home to tend the household? Maybe he would have an older sister, who was brunette, and single, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.
"You're right," I finally responded. "I just hope the boy I finally end up with is able to embrace our many differences, and appreciate our similar interests."
However, it should also be noted that she tends to avoid - at all costs - ever paying me a straight, direct, just-so-you-feel-good compliment. For instance, last Christmas, instead of saying that my haircut looked nice she said, "I love your haircut because your last one really fell on your face at all the wrong angles." Oh, okay, thanks.
Or, earlier this summer at a family BBQ, instead of saying I looked nice she said, "You look great, you must have lost weight because your figure is finally beginning to show." Er, I've been the same weight for three years, but yes, thanks.
Last Saturday was no different. Except this time I must give her the credit and mention that our conversation was extremely positive, and she did, ultimately, say some very nice things. But this was my favorite:
We were talking about how my politics and lifestyle may, er, deviate from the rest of my family. I was a little confused as to what she was talking about because we haven't really had "the talk" that would merit this statement, but I went with it. I agreed, and said, yes, I was a bit more liberal than the others but I really didn't think family needed to revolve around vice-presidential nominations. She responds,
"You're absolutely right, and I really respect your ability to bridge the two worlds. I have every confidence that if you started dating an affluent boy from Newport, you would absolutely hold your own, despite your not understanding his background."
She was right. I mean, just that afternoon my family had taken a cruise on my uncle's yacht to check out the palaces that skimmed the Newport coastline. What simpletons we were, sipping white wine and nibbling crab cakes, reaching for our cable knit sweaters and country-club-specific fleeces when the wind picked up just before sunset.
I wondered what my boyfriend in Newport would look like; if his house was on the water, or simply at the end of a private drive. Would his parents both work, or would one stay home to tend the household? Maybe he would have an older sister, who was brunette, and single, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.
"You're right," I finally responded. "I just hope the boy I finally end up with is able to embrace our many differences, and appreciate our similar interests."
Monday, September 22, 2008
Ten Stages of Drunkenness
1. Witty and Charming
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof
Baha Oklahoma
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof
Baha Oklahoma
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Ex-it Strategy
Apparently there is something about me in a black dress that turns my ex into a "frat boy." Of course, this metaphor only stretches so far, as I have numerous "frat boy" friends, and my being in a black dress actually makes them substantially nicer to me. Unfortunately for this lucky individual, by "frat boy" she means "teenage boy" and thus reacts to said outfit with an edge of distaste and fear of cooties. This is all fine, we've been doing this dance for a few years now, and I try not to take it personally.
Last Saturday I was so lucky as to be both wearing a black dress and in my ex's company, and it took only me arriving for the ridicule to start. I withstood these smirks for about forty-five minutes before it just got plain uncomfortable. That, and I'd finished my whiskey soda, so it was new drink or new party. I decided that as fun as frat boy was making my evening, I missed my similarly dressed friends on the lower east side.
Another comment hit me like a tennis ball and that was it! I'd had enough! No more comments! No more making me uncomfortable for looking nice! And I was very proud as I announced this to the room - with most of its guests not giving a shit if I was in a skirt or a towel - that I was Leaving! Goodbye! I turned to make my theatrical exit (take that, frat boy) when I walked into the wall.
I had a choice: show that my nose may or may not be bleeding or deal with it in a taxi.
Theatrical indeed.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Picnic
When my father set out to be an organic farmer in Montana during the summer between his junior and senior years in college, it took him eight weeks to reach the most important realization of his life: It takes a long time for trees to grow. Appropriately, he moved to New York and entered the busy world of finance, and never looked back on "what could have been."
But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.
Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.
Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.
One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.
"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."
At first, she held her own.
"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."
"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."
That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."
"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.
Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.
The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.
I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."
After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.
She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.
"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."
"No, you're not." I responded coolly.
Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.
"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."
We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.
"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.
I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.
It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.
When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,
"This is peppered turkey."
"So?"
"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."
Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.
"No. Too many carbs."
My father offered her a Pria bar.
"No. Too bad for my teeth."
We couldn't help smirking.
And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."
I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.
We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...
What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.
But despite this decision to engage with something else that is green, my father has passionately commanded that we, his children and wife, perceive as an unabashed "outdoor kid." OK, Dad. A wardrobe of fleece and gortex makes you a real mountain guide.
Unfortunately for my father, and especially for my mother, he chose a wife with staunch indoor leanings. Her ideal weekend is spent in front of the computer EBaying with HGTV on mute in the background and our dog, Cookie, gnawing on rawhide by her feet. At no point in the day should she feel cold. She loves our place in Vermont because she can entertain her favorite weekend activities with an impressively nicer view. You can take the lady outside... you get the picture.
Needless to say, my parents' commitment to each other has resulted in a lot of compromise. Dad knows that Mom has negative interest in cross country skiing, but Mom knows that she needs to commit to at least three hikes and seven days of skiing per year, non-negotiable terms. It's obvious my father appreciates this gesture, as those hikes and ski days tend to revolve around minimal incline and maximum lunch breaks.
One of those non-negotiable hike days occurred but a few weeks ago, when I met my parents for a couple days at their condo in Colorado. I'd flown in from Jackson Hole and was not only acclimated, but also ready for a good, solid day-hike. I assumed that because my father shared this desire, Mom would remain happily at the homestead undisturbed for the day. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived to Dad pleading her to join us.
"Weir, please come! We're going to this gorgeous lake."
At first, she held her own.
"I don't really want to, Michael. You and Liz go."
"But we can go as a family! [and in a kind of whispery tone] She's only here until tomorrow."
That tone, regardless of what he actually said, meant, "Liz, help me convince your mother."
"Yea, we'll have fun! Please, I really want you to come." I was up to the task. Obviously. The notion of my mother with a fanny pack is hilarious.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth excuses, Mom conceded, and slowly put on her hiking gear.
Mom wore a grin as we drove down the highway toward our trail head. It was sunny; classical music accentuated the mountains; she even contributed to our order at the deli. This was going to be just fine, said the little twinkle in my father's eye. Truth me told, I was skeptical. Mom was being just a little too agreeable.
The first five minutes of our "hike" was actually walking up a road from the parking lot to the actual trail. She stopped three times to "look at the flowers." When we reached the trail head, she need to "look at the map," and then she needed to "double-check our route," and then her back was starting to hurt. In her defense, there were some pretty flowers in the private residences we passed; and the map did present an array of various routes to our destination.
I've never been a great leader - my pace is typically faster than my counterparts, and I get impatient quickly. Today was no different, especially because it seemed that with every step I took forward, Mother somehow took five steps back. I was careful not to encourage her too obviously; if my mother is anything it is independent, and unless she is the one acting the part, she doesn't like "cute."
After four minutes I had to say something. "Mom, come on. You can do this - just keep walking." This was worse than any twelve-year-old camper I'd pushed up a mountain.
She kind of grunted a response. Dad tried to interpret said grunt and offered that perhaps she'd like to take off one of her layers. Her expression said that his was a sort of good idea. Long-sleeve shirt off, tied around waist (over fanny-pack), hands on hips. My dad and I cautiously continue walking. Mom does not follow.
"I think I'm suffering from altitude sickness."
"No, you're not." I responded coolly.
Twenty more step. Twenty more steps for me means it was negative one hundred steps for her. My dad and I looked at her incredulously. She was actually teetering backwards.
"I'm looking at the god damned flowers, Michael."
We couldn't contain it any longer. Laughter awarded the mountains with a free concert.
"I have a headache." Dad and I shook our heads. I looked at my watch. We'd left the car fifteen minutes ago. This was at least an hour hike with normally-paced hikers.
I told them that they should keep walking (in place) and I would run ahead to see if we were getting close. It should be noted that by this point, three hiking groups had passed us. All of which were larger, and all of which had younger children trailing (ha) along.
It took me less than three minutes to know that we were nowhere near the lake. I walked back to my poor, ailing parents, and figured either we force mother to endure the worst day of her life, or we admit defeat, drop her off at home, and go on another hike. The choice seemed pretty obvious.
When I suggested the idea and added that we all sit down for lunch on a nice looking rock (as we hadn't exactly reached anywhere with a view), my father was a little hesitant. I could tell her really wanted Mom to reach the lake. My mother was also hesitant, though more to avoid appearing overly enthusiastic. But I tell you: I haven't seen her eyes light up like that in years. We sat down on the nearest rock and I passed around sandwiches - we'd all ordered turkey with mustard and lettuce. There hadn't been ten seconds of content silence before,
"This is peppered turkey."
"So?"
"Peppered turkey hurts my mouth."
Shit. I offered an apology along with my bread, mustard, and lettuce folded into a nice veggie sandwich.
"No. Too many carbs."
My father offered her a Pria bar.
"No. Too bad for my teeth."
We couldn't help smirking.
And then she said in by far the saddest, most defeated tone I've ever head, "All I wanted for lunch was a turkey sandwich. It was the one thing getting me through this afternoon."
I apologized again, but it was uttered through so much laughter I'm sure she could only appreciate it so much.
We finished lunch and started the 500-yard trek back to the car. Ironically, my mother's back was suddenly fine. Her had headache had lifted. Her feet felt wonderful. She did everything but trot to the car, ahead of both Dad and me, beaming like a horse finally returning to its stable...
What I've learned: Mom will win the battle, and she will win the war.
Signs You Know it Was Your Birthday
1. Sheets are not dry
2. Advil loose in my back pocket
3. Confidence that absolutely nothing has changed since last year.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Same Chip, Different Cookie
Coming out is like... a box of chocolates. No, that's not it. Coming out is like... lily tickled air on a summer day. No, that's not right either. Coming out is like... coming out sucks. It's nerve-wracking and awkward and even for a girl who needs to constantly remind herself that she's not in a movie, this stage was enormous and daunting. But even without a movie script in hand I still did as the celebs do: take advantage of the night hours.*
*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.
Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."
When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.
"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."
He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.
"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?
Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.
I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."
Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.
*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.
Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."
When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.
"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."
He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.
"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?
Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.
I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."
Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Camp Deerfield
It took me almost a month to realize that I was actually attending boarding school, and not year-round camp with classes. To this day I find it odd that neither parent motioned to inform me. We drove the two-hour ride on a Sunday morning in early September, our dark-green minivan surprisingly empty for so monumental a move. I packed for this new school like I’d always packed for camp: a trunk of clothes, a bag of linens, a shoebox of cherished pictures.
Ironically, the first person I encountered at Deerfield was an older girl from Teton Valley, further cementing my assumption that this was camp with homework. Camp was fun, homework was easy. Deerfield, I bragged to my parents, was going to be a cinch. Again, rather mysteriously, my parents simply nodded and helped transport luggage from car to dorm.
In retrospect, I think a simple, “Hey, Liz, this might not be just like camp,” or, “You know, high school is usually pretty hard,” might have helped in the grand scheme of things. While that first day progressed comfortably with a stream of orientation groups, and a school-wide sit-down meal, and an awkward hour of name games in the student center, Deerfield started in September for a reason. And I understand why we are urged not to consider first impressions absolutely; the succeeding week from this arrival day was an unequivocal omen that I would feel bruised, tangled, and exposed at this place.
Day One was a Monday, the first day of classes. Summer sunny, girls in skirts, boys sweltering from jackets and ties, chicken cutlets for lunch. I felt good about the contacts made thus far, and when I saw two girls walking slightly ahead of me after Spanish class, I hurried to catch-up. They greeted me and I broke into a story. Nothing new there.
Why I felt the need to wave my hands ferociously at the top of the stairs I'll never know, but unsurprisingly my ankle rolled and I tumbled down the stairs. The fall felt like it happened quite quickly, but when I opened my eyes on the ground floor, the students hovering around me looked like they’d had ample time to collect in a circle. The Classroom Building stairs wrap around a brief landing before a final flight delivers you to the front door. My body flew down the first flight with such force that I slid across the interim landing and continued to fall, only stopping once I surpassed the bottom step.
When classes let out at 3:05pm sharp, everyone tends to socialize in the building’s main foyer before walking outside. I think those kids who stood closest to me tried desperately not to stare at my now exposed bottom half. The khaki skirt I’d picked specifically for my first day of school was now wrapped around my shoulders and reached up to my chin (ask about my underwear and I'll let you know I was wearing minimal coverage garments). My black heels were nowhere in my vicinity, but a well-known senior boy emerged from the crowd to hand them to me. Someone asked if I was okay, and if it was permissible to laugh. I limped out of the building and my respondent laughter was the pride stifling my confession that I thought my hip was broken.
Day Two: Tuesday, soccer tryouts. I felt both determined and confident about making the team. I’ve never been one to back-down from competition, and when our last drill involved a two-person race from midfield to goal, I sprinted with my head tucked down, mind and body absolutely dedicated to winning. The fields were directly below the athletic complex, and often the school’s trainers would sit on a porch overlooking the various practices.
I reached the goal sooner than expected, my head still tucked down in track star form. When I finally looked up to compare my location with the other girl’s, my head shot through the soccer net. In an effort to free my now-stuck head, my left arm and right leg became caught in the net as well. I dangled a few inches above the ground, the net surprised at its own ability to render me immobile. It took a few minutes for the coach to realize my lingering by the goal was not a choice, but an imprisonment. The team gathered by the goal in a combination of guffaws and awestruck stares. I resembled a crustacean, claws connecting body to net.
Mr. Williams introduced himself as the head trainer and cut me out of the goal with a pair of dulled medical scissors. In an effort to pretend this was not happening and to avoid eye contact with the other athletes walking back from practice, I closed my eyes. And dropped to the grass with an even thud.
The next day at biology class, I overheard the teacher ask a girl sitting in front of me if she knew who had gotten their head stuck in a soccer net.
Day Three: Saturday of the same week, mid-afternoon, “free swim” (I realize this is in and of itself embarrassing). A group of new friends and I had discovered the pool, and especially loved the springy diving board. I somehow convinced myself, and these other unknowing acquaintances, that I could perform a back flip. I figured I’d dove a little in elementary school, and diving was sort of like riding a bike. You just take a deep breath and go.
High school, like camp, was all about taking chances. “Seriously, your body basically does the flip for you,” I reassured a fellow swimmer after he asked me if I could really do one. I should have known: justifying your ability to do something is life’s way of begging you to think twice.
My friend James was leading a tour-group through the Natatorium when I flailed my arms and attempted the dive. Upon completing the flip, I hit the board head first and rickashayed into the water, completely knocked-out. The tour-group stood watching as lifeguards and swimmers catapulted themselves into the pool, my body floating back up in the now-crimson liquid. James turned to the group and said, “We are proud to house an extremely capable medical staff here at Deerfield. Hopefully she’ll be just fine.”
“Hopefully,” agreed a sarcastic woman in large black sunglasses.
When I came to at the side of the pool, all I could muster was: “My head hurts. A lot.”
The school physician diagnosed me with a moderate concussion and used eight stitches to sew an even line perpendicular to my hair part.
Two days later at sit-down lunch, the athletic director made an announcement that due to unforeseen circumstances, the diving pool had been drained over the weekend, and water polo practice would resume by Wednesday.
By the second week of class, I was impressively well known for a freshman.
I'd Like to Thank My Friends and Family
While most children can tell a story or perform a dance and feel satisfied with a mere pat on the back, I felt like that pat on the back was a subtle way of saying, “I don’t care, and you aren’t good.” I was eight-years-old and passionate about anything that would grant me attention. I was both aggressive and scheming in this endeavor. I considered each performance, regardless of who constituted the audience, as a potentially life-altering experience. I’d seen Life with Mikey; I knew child show business was tough stuff. But I figured, like the little girl who made Sunshine Cookies what they are today, if my parents didn’t understand my talent, surely an agent walking down the street would.
Every morning during second grade, our teacher, Mrs. Bendish, would lead the class through the first verse of America the Beautiful. After roll call was finished, we mechanically aligned ourselves in a semi-circle facing the chalkboard, and watched her sway a miniature American Flag side to side, exclaiming: “Let’s show this flag what we’re made of!”
At first, this had felt odd. I understood we needed to celebrate our country, but I could not fathom why a country so important would manufacture a flag so small. However, one morning during the early winter, our lower school music teacher, Mrs. Meachin, walked by the classroom while we were singing. She stopped briefly in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane, and smiled to the room before continuing down the hall. Suddenly it clicked: Mrs. Bendish was not making the class sing for the flag – she was making me sing in hopes that Mrs. Meachin would overhear and immediately put me on stage. The class was obviously a decoy so I would feel comfortable.
The next morning, I awoke with the feeling that today would be the day. I carefully buttoned my green uniform jumper, made sure my Cinderella socks were folded exactly three times over, and took a long look around my room. The stuffed animals knew something was different. They sat up straight on the bed, their faces flooded with trepidation. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them, collecting my reading and math folders. “Even when I’m famous, I’ll bring you wherever I go.” Mr. Bear and Baby-O seemed to relax after that.
I arrived to school anxious to begin our morning carol. When Mrs. Bendish called my name I resounded an exuberant “Here!” and stood up excitedly, beaming. Mrs. Bendish lightly coughed before reading the next name; students normally remained seated during attendance. Roll call continued uneventfully. I remained standing.
Before long Mrs. Bendish lined us up, her arm outstretched and swaying the American Flag. At first I felt a little put off – I assumed for my debut she would have at least found a larger flag. But then I figured she probably didn’t want to act conspicuously in front of the other students, lest they feel jealous when Mrs. Meachin arrived.
The class began singing: O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain… Mrs. Bendish joyfully conducting from the front. When the class reached: America! I jumped into the middle of the circle, belting the lyrics with all I had. I closed my eyes like Whitney Houston and faced the doorway, arms outstretched toward Mrs. Meachin.
And crown thy good, with brotherhood from sea to shining sea! I kept my eyes closed for a moment. This was special. I wanted Mrs. Meachin to know just how dedicated I was to my impending career. The air felt tense, like everyone was restlessly waiting to see what happened next.
I opened my eyes to an empty doorway. The room was silent. I turned back around to the class and met Mrs. Bendish’s gaze. Her look was of flabbergasted concern. “Why don’t we all sit down now,” she instructed, mouthing, stay-in-side-for-re-cess, before I walked back to my desk.
Mathematics and social studies rolled through the classroom before it was finally time for my “talk” with Mrs. Bendish. I wasn’t scared; we’d had “talks” before. They typically consisted of Mrs. Bendish explaining the “consequences of my actions”, and asking if I “understood why students didn’t behave in such-and-such manner.” I quickly learned after a fiasco with the class chicks in late September that it was best if I sat back and kept my mouth shut.
“Elizabeth,” she began today, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do you understand why you aren’t at recess right now?”
“Probably because I sang too loudly,” I conceded, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. I’d failed. Everyone knew a vociferous voice murdered hopes of stardom.
“Elizabeth,” she tried again, realizing that my sigh was one of defeat, and not one of remorse. Screams from the playground bled through the windows and taunted the room’s silence.
“Elizabeth,” she repeated, louder.
“I’m sorry I disrupted the classroom,” I offered mechanically. Mrs. Bendish’s eyes softened a little. I added hurriedly: “Does this mean Mrs. Meachin didn’t like my singing? Because I’m sure if I sang a different song I could do better.”
Mrs. Bendish did not even try to conceal her exasperation. She looked at me incredulously.
“Elizabeth, in no way is the song important here…” Her reprimand quickly droned out as I imagined her graying hair as hot pink, her conservative navy skirt transformed into a black micro-mini covered in little red hearts. She was onstage, lecturing off tune. I giggled. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“All right let’s go,” she commanded, waving her hand harshly and walking toward the door. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”
I’d done this before, too. We would walk the thirty steps down the third-grade hallway, pass the make shift library, and arrive at the principal’s office. She would tell Mrs. Young I was acting out, murmur something about me going to see such-and-such, and leave me to explain myself to a woman who considered her emaciated dog, Ginger, far superior to any Greenwich Academy student. Today I stayed in Mrs. Young’s office until lunchtime, instructed to “reflect on how I could be a better member of the classroom.” I decided I needed to pick a better song and choreograph a more sophisticated routine.
When my nanny picked me up from school that day, Mrs. Bendish handed her two sealed envelopes, and requested that each parent read both. Grietje looked back at me and raised her eyebrows.
“How come your brother never gets notes home?” I shrugged.
Our minivan dragged itself down the road and she turned on the soundtrack to “Camelot”. I shouted along, my eyes closed and arms outstretched. Michael covered his ears with both hands.
Every morning during second grade, our teacher, Mrs. Bendish, would lead the class through the first verse of America the Beautiful. After roll call was finished, we mechanically aligned ourselves in a semi-circle facing the chalkboard, and watched her sway a miniature American Flag side to side, exclaiming: “Let’s show this flag what we’re made of!”
At first, this had felt odd. I understood we needed to celebrate our country, but I could not fathom why a country so important would manufacture a flag so small. However, one morning during the early winter, our lower school music teacher, Mrs. Meachin, walked by the classroom while we were singing. She stopped briefly in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane, and smiled to the room before continuing down the hall. Suddenly it clicked: Mrs. Bendish was not making the class sing for the flag – she was making me sing in hopes that Mrs. Meachin would overhear and immediately put me on stage. The class was obviously a decoy so I would feel comfortable.
The next morning, I awoke with the feeling that today would be the day. I carefully buttoned my green uniform jumper, made sure my Cinderella socks were folded exactly three times over, and took a long look around my room. The stuffed animals knew something was different. They sat up straight on the bed, their faces flooded with trepidation. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them, collecting my reading and math folders. “Even when I’m famous, I’ll bring you wherever I go.” Mr. Bear and Baby-O seemed to relax after that.
I arrived to school anxious to begin our morning carol. When Mrs. Bendish called my name I resounded an exuberant “Here!” and stood up excitedly, beaming. Mrs. Bendish lightly coughed before reading the next name; students normally remained seated during attendance. Roll call continued uneventfully. I remained standing.
Before long Mrs. Bendish lined us up, her arm outstretched and swaying the American Flag. At first I felt a little put off – I assumed for my debut she would have at least found a larger flag. But then I figured she probably didn’t want to act conspicuously in front of the other students, lest they feel jealous when Mrs. Meachin arrived.
The class began singing: O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain… Mrs. Bendish joyfully conducting from the front. When the class reached: America! I jumped into the middle of the circle, belting the lyrics with all I had. I closed my eyes like Whitney Houston and faced the doorway, arms outstretched toward Mrs. Meachin.
And crown thy good, with brotherhood from sea to shining sea! I kept my eyes closed for a moment. This was special. I wanted Mrs. Meachin to know just how dedicated I was to my impending career. The air felt tense, like everyone was restlessly waiting to see what happened next.
I opened my eyes to an empty doorway. The room was silent. I turned back around to the class and met Mrs. Bendish’s gaze. Her look was of flabbergasted concern. “Why don’t we all sit down now,” she instructed, mouthing, stay-in-side-for-re-cess, before I walked back to my desk.
Mathematics and social studies rolled through the classroom before it was finally time for my “talk” with Mrs. Bendish. I wasn’t scared; we’d had “talks” before. They typically consisted of Mrs. Bendish explaining the “consequences of my actions”, and asking if I “understood why students didn’t behave in such-and-such manner.” I quickly learned after a fiasco with the class chicks in late September that it was best if I sat back and kept my mouth shut.
“Elizabeth,” she began today, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do you understand why you aren’t at recess right now?”
“Probably because I sang too loudly,” I conceded, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. I’d failed. Everyone knew a vociferous voice murdered hopes of stardom.
“Elizabeth,” she tried again, realizing that my sigh was one of defeat, and not one of remorse. Screams from the playground bled through the windows and taunted the room’s silence.
“Elizabeth,” she repeated, louder.
“I’m sorry I disrupted the classroom,” I offered mechanically. Mrs. Bendish’s eyes softened a little. I added hurriedly: “Does this mean Mrs. Meachin didn’t like my singing? Because I’m sure if I sang a different song I could do better.”
Mrs. Bendish did not even try to conceal her exasperation. She looked at me incredulously.
“Elizabeth, in no way is the song important here…” Her reprimand quickly droned out as I imagined her graying hair as hot pink, her conservative navy skirt transformed into a black micro-mini covered in little red hearts. She was onstage, lecturing off tune. I giggled. She stopped dead in her tracks.
“All right let’s go,” she commanded, waving her hand harshly and walking toward the door. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”
I’d done this before, too. We would walk the thirty steps down the third-grade hallway, pass the make shift library, and arrive at the principal’s office. She would tell Mrs. Young I was acting out, murmur something about me going to see such-and-such, and leave me to explain myself to a woman who considered her emaciated dog, Ginger, far superior to any Greenwich Academy student. Today I stayed in Mrs. Young’s office until lunchtime, instructed to “reflect on how I could be a better member of the classroom.” I decided I needed to pick a better song and choreograph a more sophisticated routine.
When my nanny picked me up from school that day, Mrs. Bendish handed her two sealed envelopes, and requested that each parent read both. Grietje looked back at me and raised her eyebrows.
“How come your brother never gets notes home?” I shrugged.
Our minivan dragged itself down the road and she turned on the soundtrack to “Camelot”. I shouted along, my eyes closed and arms outstretched. Michael covered his ears with both hands.
Is This Mama Bear?
Sometimes when I get too excited I overindulge. And sometimes when I overindulge, I confuse myself for a 225 lb football player on Spring Break. This confusion, while fun at the time, has unfortunately generated a wide spectrum of results, the majority of which I feel thankful to only partially remember.
Appropriately, the last time this distortion of self-perception occurred was at a lesbian bar. This is unsurprising - I lack the aesthetic lesbian hipster edge, so I overcompensate by drinking like a dude. Further, I was at said lesbian bar sandwiched between the ex of an ex and a straight girl who seems to think that tequila can make you gay.
The last thing I remember is taking a shot, chasing it with Bud Lite, kissing the straight girl after saying no to the ex of the ex, but stopping mid-kiss to explain that I was drunk and thus not bringing my A game. She didn't seem to notice, or care, or remember much the next morning.
Then: my father is shaking me. It is light out. I am on a bench. Inside. But where? People in uniform. Shiny floors. SVU? No, can't be. Olivia and Stabler are not real.
"Dad, I didn't come home last night, did I?" (Did I?)
"No, you didn't, that's the problem." I sat up and looked across the corridor. My head felt fuzzy.
"They made me sign a book. Did they make you sign a book?"
"No, Liz. They didn't."
My father nicely, though not exactly gently, led me outside to his car. The morning air settled onto my skin and I realized something: I had just woken up in jail, and my father had clearly driven in to retrieve me. Reality (or the leftover beer?) hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly I was wailing. Dad was clearly uncomfortable. I mean, what do you even say in a moment like that? "Gee, daughter, don't be upset, we've all blacked out and woken up in prison." Or, "Come on, Liz, at least you didn't pee on the bench."
Instead he drove to my apartment and said calmly, "you are going to go upstairs and get your dog, and then come back down so I can drive you home for the weekend."
When I returned I spent a few minutes crying with my puppy (wait, I've done that before...) until finally asking what had actually happened.
Here's a basic intinerary:
12:30-3:00am - Liz is actually Larry, the fullback for the Middlebury Panthers
3:03am - Larry, wearing signs of Liz, gets into a cab and mumbles an address
3:03:30am - Liz decides there is no better place to take a nap than this backseat
3:30am - Cab arrives at mumbled address. Liz does not respond. Cabbie asks for money. Liz dreams of girl she met that night.
3:40am - Cabbie realizes this blond girl wearing gold shoes is not waking up anytime soon.
3:50am - Cabbie drops blond girl off at the Bowery Precinct
3:55-4:30am - Policeman on duty calls the following people in hopes to revive Elizabeth Lawrence Parker of Greenwich Connecticut:
Uncle Graham
Cousin Sage
Cousin Graham
Grandpa Parker
Grandma Bitsy Cell Phone
Brother
Mama Bear
(At home in Greenwich the phone rings. Mom assumes it's Japan and answers)
"Is this Mama Bear?" There's only one person who calls her that.
"Michael you need to handle this."
"Hello?"
"Yes, sir, we have your daughter, who is fine, but... needs someone to come get her."
"Oh shit. She drunk again?"
"Yessir."
The following night, my mother tried to console me.
"Liz, just limit yourself."
"That's the problem. Maybe I can't."
"Oh, no, that's silly. Do what I do. Drink two glasses of wine and stop."
"Yea but you go to bed at 9."
"Exactly. If you want to drink, you'll have to go to bed at 9."
Well folks, there's always brunch.
Appropriately, the last time this distortion of self-perception occurred was at a lesbian bar. This is unsurprising - I lack the aesthetic lesbian hipster edge, so I overcompensate by drinking like a dude. Further, I was at said lesbian bar sandwiched between the ex of an ex and a straight girl who seems to think that tequila can make you gay.
The last thing I remember is taking a shot, chasing it with Bud Lite, kissing the straight girl after saying no to the ex of the ex, but stopping mid-kiss to explain that I was drunk and thus not bringing my A game. She didn't seem to notice, or care, or remember much the next morning.
Then: my father is shaking me. It is light out. I am on a bench. Inside. But where? People in uniform. Shiny floors. SVU? No, can't be. Olivia and Stabler are not real.
"Dad, I didn't come home last night, did I?" (Did I?)
"No, you didn't, that's the problem." I sat up and looked across the corridor. My head felt fuzzy.
"They made me sign a book. Did they make you sign a book?"
"No, Liz. They didn't."
My father nicely, though not exactly gently, led me outside to his car. The morning air settled onto my skin and I realized something: I had just woken up in jail, and my father had clearly driven in to retrieve me. Reality (or the leftover beer?) hit me like a ton of bricks and suddenly I was wailing. Dad was clearly uncomfortable. I mean, what do you even say in a moment like that? "Gee, daughter, don't be upset, we've all blacked out and woken up in prison." Or, "Come on, Liz, at least you didn't pee on the bench."
Instead he drove to my apartment and said calmly, "you are going to go upstairs and get your dog, and then come back down so I can drive you home for the weekend."
When I returned I spent a few minutes crying with my puppy (wait, I've done that before...) until finally asking what had actually happened.
Here's a basic intinerary:
12:30-3:00am - Liz is actually Larry, the fullback for the Middlebury Panthers
3:03am - Larry, wearing signs of Liz, gets into a cab and mumbles an address
3:03:30am - Liz decides there is no better place to take a nap than this backseat
3:30am - Cab arrives at mumbled address. Liz does not respond. Cabbie asks for money. Liz dreams of girl she met that night.
3:40am - Cabbie realizes this blond girl wearing gold shoes is not waking up anytime soon.
3:50am - Cabbie drops blond girl off at the Bowery Precinct
3:55-4:30am - Policeman on duty calls the following people in hopes to revive Elizabeth Lawrence Parker of Greenwich Connecticut:
Uncle Graham
Cousin Sage
Cousin Graham
Grandpa Parker
Grandma Bitsy Cell Phone
Brother
Mama Bear
(At home in Greenwich the phone rings. Mom assumes it's Japan and answers)
"Is this Mama Bear?" There's only one person who calls her that.
"Michael you need to handle this."
"Hello?"
"Yes, sir, we have your daughter, who is fine, but... needs someone to come get her."
"Oh shit. She drunk again?"
"Yessir."
The following night, my mother tried to console me.
"Liz, just limit yourself."
"That's the problem. Maybe I can't."
"Oh, no, that's silly. Do what I do. Drink two glasses of wine and stop."
"Yea but you go to bed at 9."
"Exactly. If you want to drink, you'll have to go to bed at 9."
Well folks, there's always brunch.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Good Friends Help You Get Ready for a Date. Best Friends Get You the Date.
Beep came home on a Thursday weighing 2.1 lbs and celebrating her two month birthday. At work the next day I fantasized about taking little Beep to the park, teaching her to sit, to stay, to rollover; all the while imagining that while I worked she would play with her stuffed hot dog. Life was good. We would be best friends in no time.
I returned home that Friday afternoon to find Beep covered in her own number two and shrieking louder than any infant I’d ever heard. I threw off my dress, rescued her from her crate, and burst into tears. What the hell was I thinking? I’d never been around a puppy before. They didn’t arrive trained and confident. Forget sitting. I needed her to not wet herself every half hour. As Beep continued to shake and cry, there was only one person I could possibly call. Josh, the nice man who had sold me this godforsaken creature, and had the really pretty blue eyes.
(Before I go any further: I don't cry. Ever.)
"Josh, it's [long pause because I didn't want him to know that I was crying] Liz from yesterday. I bought [swallowing a sob] Beep." Beep came out like a squeaky grunt.
Thankfully he remembered me, and asked about Beep.
[Choke] "She pooped on herself, and I went to work, and when I came back it was all over her, the poop, and she's crying, and shaking, and she's really small, and I don't know what to do, and I'm supposed to go to dinner with my parents tonight, but I'm here and they're in Greenwich, and Beep is just here, wailing, and oh My God I'm the worst puppy mother ever." [Audible sob]
He gently consoled me: give her a bath, give yourself a bath, give her some dinner, sit calmly and have a nice quiet evening with your pup.
I thanked him profusely, began to calm down, and he told me to check back in an hour to make sure everything was fine.
[An hour later, by the second]
"Josh, hi, it's Liz."
"Liz! Beep okay now?"
[it should be noted: I was dry eyed until he said her name, and then the afternoon, and fresh tears, came rushing back]
"I think so. She's kind of sleeping."
"Oh good. Good. [pause - he seems to be thinking, I'm still sniffling and choking a little] So, Liz, what are you, um, doing tonight?"
"Well you told me to have a quiet night with Beep. So I'm, um, doing that."
"Right. Of course. Right. Well, see, the other day, when you were in here with your friend, you said cockblocked. And I thought that was really, really funny."
I knew exactly where this was headed. But sitting in my bra and underwear, sweaty, and still a little smeared by Beep, to say I was shocked is a gross understatement. I could go to a club every weekend dressed to the nines, but it's not until I'm naked and crying that someone looks my direction.
"Ha, oh yea? Well, I think it's a statement that should be used more." [I don't agree with this statement at all.]
"Hey, Liz?"
Wait for it. Wait for it.
"Yea?"
"Would you, want to, um, grab a drink sometime? Maybe Sunday?"
Incredulous, I agreed, and also agreed to meet him outside Parrots 'n Pups on Sunday evening at 8pm. My roommate, Virginia, and friend, Olivia, were ecstatic to get me out of the apartment, where I'd been for two days, still bursting into tears at any given moment.
Sunday arrived.
(I must admit there were two things inherently wrong with this picture: I don't really date men and I was going out with a guy who was impressed with my use of "cockblock.")
Lo and behold, we had a great time. There were beers and talking, beers and laughing, beers and (shared) burger. As hour two rounded into three, the conversation grew a little quiet. We'd covered hobbies and jobs and hometowns. I kept feeling nervous for acting so young; he'd already traveled the world and dabbled in myriad professions.
So I finally asked:
"How old are you anyway?" He smirked. "You're like thirty, aren't you."
He kept smirking. "Not exactly."
"Older? [slowly shakes his head] Younger? [kind of not really looks away] Than me?"
"How old are you again?"
"Twenty-three."
[bites his lip]
"Tell me you're legal."
"Define legal." Oh good God.
"Eighteen? Please."
"I'm sorry. I didn't tell you before. I'm 19. But 20 very soon!"
My face wore obvious shock.
"Does that make you see me differently?"
"Well, Josh, I'm a lesbian. Does that make you see me differently?"
He paid for the beers. I paid for the burger.
I returned home that Friday afternoon to find Beep covered in her own number two and shrieking louder than any infant I’d ever heard. I threw off my dress, rescued her from her crate, and burst into tears. What the hell was I thinking? I’d never been around a puppy before. They didn’t arrive trained and confident. Forget sitting. I needed her to not wet herself every half hour. As Beep continued to shake and cry, there was only one person I could possibly call. Josh, the nice man who had sold me this godforsaken creature, and had the really pretty blue eyes.
(Before I go any further: I don't cry. Ever.)
"Josh, it's [long pause because I didn't want him to know that I was crying] Liz from yesterday. I bought [swallowing a sob] Beep." Beep came out like a squeaky grunt.
Thankfully he remembered me, and asked about Beep.
[Choke] "She pooped on herself, and I went to work, and when I came back it was all over her, the poop, and she's crying, and shaking, and she's really small, and I don't know what to do, and I'm supposed to go to dinner with my parents tonight, but I'm here and they're in Greenwich, and Beep is just here, wailing, and oh My God I'm the worst puppy mother ever." [Audible sob]
He gently consoled me: give her a bath, give yourself a bath, give her some dinner, sit calmly and have a nice quiet evening with your pup.
I thanked him profusely, began to calm down, and he told me to check back in an hour to make sure everything was fine.
[An hour later, by the second]
"Josh, hi, it's Liz."
"Liz! Beep okay now?"
[it should be noted: I was dry eyed until he said her name, and then the afternoon, and fresh tears, came rushing back]
"I think so. She's kind of sleeping."
"Oh good. Good. [pause - he seems to be thinking, I'm still sniffling and choking a little] So, Liz, what are you, um, doing tonight?"
"Well you told me to have a quiet night with Beep. So I'm, um, doing that."
"Right. Of course. Right. Well, see, the other day, when you were in here with your friend, you said cockblocked. And I thought that was really, really funny."
I knew exactly where this was headed. But sitting in my bra and underwear, sweaty, and still a little smeared by Beep, to say I was shocked is a gross understatement. I could go to a club every weekend dressed to the nines, but it's not until I'm naked and crying that someone looks my direction.
"Ha, oh yea? Well, I think it's a statement that should be used more." [I don't agree with this statement at all.]
"Hey, Liz?"
Wait for it. Wait for it.
"Yea?"
"Would you, want to, um, grab a drink sometime? Maybe Sunday?"
Incredulous, I agreed, and also agreed to meet him outside Parrots 'n Pups on Sunday evening at 8pm. My roommate, Virginia, and friend, Olivia, were ecstatic to get me out of the apartment, where I'd been for two days, still bursting into tears at any given moment.
Sunday arrived.
(I must admit there were two things inherently wrong with this picture: I don't really date men and I was going out with a guy who was impressed with my use of "cockblock.")
Lo and behold, we had a great time. There were beers and talking, beers and laughing, beers and (shared) burger. As hour two rounded into three, the conversation grew a little quiet. We'd covered hobbies and jobs and hometowns. I kept feeling nervous for acting so young; he'd already traveled the world and dabbled in myriad professions.
So I finally asked:
"How old are you anyway?" He smirked. "You're like thirty, aren't you."
He kept smirking. "Not exactly."
"Older? [slowly shakes his head] Younger? [kind of not really looks away] Than me?"
"How old are you again?"
"Twenty-three."
[bites his lip]
"Tell me you're legal."
"Define legal." Oh good God.
"Eighteen? Please."
"I'm sorry. I didn't tell you before. I'm 19. But 20 very soon!"
My face wore obvious shock.
"Does that make you see me differently?"
"Well, Josh, I'm a lesbian. Does that make you see me differently?"
He paid for the beers. I paid for the burger.
If the Shoe Fits...
They say when women are depressed, they go shopping. And not just the pansy-ass lunch break window browsing. They buy stuff. I once had a friend endure an atrocious, heart wrenching breakup and spend five hundred dollars at the local Target. No one can say exactly what she bought, but plastic bags suffocated our kitchen floor for weeks. Shopping when depressed is cathartic. Unlike relationships – which, at least for the socially functional you cannot buy – stores present an infinite amount of things begging you to choose them. "Pick me and I'll give you cleavage," a shirt might plead; "If it doesn't need a plate, the calories don't count," says a box of chocolates. And then all you have to do is toss the chosen item in the cart. No questions, no strings; simply hand your card to the cashier, and you are free to walk with your newest friend into the sunset. There are no talks about where this walk may lead. No concerns that you may be walking too quickly.
I pride myself in knowing that I don't fall for such tricks. Last spring, I bought a complete outfit off of a mannequin because I needed clothes for a golf tournament, not because my grandmother, Beep, was terminally ill. And a few weeks later, when I walked past a pet store (Parrots ‘n Pups, which I’ve since learned is an awful place) during my lunch break and casually bought a puppy, I did that because I'd been planning on buying a puppy for months, not because Beep had passed on a few days before. Of course by naming said puppy Beep, that claim went out the window, but my friends and family gave me a few weeks to entertain the charade.
Some People Call Me Wizpower
My parents routinely complain that I tell too many stories. While my father will humor me, my mother tends to avoid the phone. My brother, Michael, two years younger, openly admits that he hasn’t listened to me in years. I will agree that I do verge on the verbose – but a lot happens to me. Or, I do a lot that makes thing happen to me. Or, I was blessed with equal parts extroversion and affinity for substances, and thus tend to execute the sort of shenanigans typically reserved for movies.
But to blame these shenanigans on substances is not fair. Plenty happens during the daytime hours to warrant the claim that embarrassment knows no boundaries. By three years old I’d been kicked out of preschool (there was an incident with peanut butter, clarification to come), and by seven I had found a magic ring (aka bought for twenty five cents at one of those grocery store machines), had named myself Wizpower, and earnestly believed that like Peter Pan, the desire to stay young would enable me to simultaneously fly out of my window. Thankfully, my windows had screens on them, but that didn’t keep me from announcing to my first grade class one Friday that I would fly for show-and-tell and would everyone please arrange the desks in a cluster from which I could jump. When I, surprise surprise, didn’t actually take-off, and instead fell into the middle of the circle my classmates had formed, I sat down calmly and declared with the utmost sincerity, “I wore the wrong ring.”
Granted, at the time I was part of that experimental group (Connecticut, 1989-1990) already taking Ritalin, but I don’t think we can really blame drugs for that one.
Anyway.
You could say most of my life is funny, in retrospect. Sure, it’s been a fairly comfortable whirlwind of Connecticut lawns and Massachusetts boarding school and New York City after Vermont college, but I’ve never been one to “mesh” with other kids quite like my brother. He's a little politician, wooing family friends and grandparents and small children. All of these groups generally make me awkward, and when I'm awkward, I tend to tell stories, and these stories tend to be inappropriate for whatever context I currently inhabit. Maybe the lesbian thing sets me apart. Maybe the fact that I have no rhythm, or can’t parallel park, or pee the bed sometimes. No one knows for sure.
But to blame these shenanigans on substances is not fair. Plenty happens during the daytime hours to warrant the claim that embarrassment knows no boundaries. By three years old I’d been kicked out of preschool (there was an incident with peanut butter, clarification to come), and by seven I had found a magic ring (aka bought for twenty five cents at one of those grocery store machines), had named myself Wizpower, and earnestly believed that like Peter Pan, the desire to stay young would enable me to simultaneously fly out of my window. Thankfully, my windows had screens on them, but that didn’t keep me from announcing to my first grade class one Friday that I would fly for show-and-tell and would everyone please arrange the desks in a cluster from which I could jump. When I, surprise surprise, didn’t actually take-off, and instead fell into the middle of the circle my classmates had formed, I sat down calmly and declared with the utmost sincerity, “I wore the wrong ring.”
Granted, at the time I was part of that experimental group (Connecticut, 1989-1990) already taking Ritalin, but I don’t think we can really blame drugs for that one.
Anyway.
You could say most of my life is funny, in retrospect. Sure, it’s been a fairly comfortable whirlwind of Connecticut lawns and Massachusetts boarding school and New York City after Vermont college, but I’ve never been one to “mesh” with other kids quite like my brother. He's a little politician, wooing family friends and grandparents and small children. All of these groups generally make me awkward, and when I'm awkward, I tend to tell stories, and these stories tend to be inappropriate for whatever context I currently inhabit. Maybe the lesbian thing sets me apart. Maybe the fact that I have no rhythm, or can’t parallel park, or pee the bed sometimes. No one knows for sure.
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