Lunch in midtown: unsaid

Hey!! It is so nice to see you. How have you been? How is your family?

I've been back from Haiti for about a year now and I'm so happy to be home! Yeah,  I know, Haiti- how crazy?

What's that? Oh yeah, the earthquake. So terrible. They are still suffering. The aid following the earthquake was so mismanaged. 

You know what's crazy about Haiti? Like when you have a birth center, and it is the only source of maternal healthcare for thousands of women, but it is on Catholic church land and the priest that resides there is literally the worst person you have ever met in your life? Yeah it's wild. Like when you don't sleep for days on end because he cuts off access to electricity and water because you aren't paying his brides? He doesn't care if women and babies die because of his negligence, because he deserves like $50 a month just for being a priest in that village. I always dreamed of being all alone negotiating with a terrorist, totally in my job description! You know how it is. How you have to navigate the terrible relationships that have been established before you got there, and finally start to scare him straight, and it has been a year of hard work against the corruption, hours and hours face to face with an egotistical oxygen thief, and then- you get this- the new executive director comes to visit and just agrees to his bribes, without you, the first time she meets him? Yeah Haiti is wild. 

So how is your new job going? How is your commute? Oh man, that is so annoying! 

You know the thing about Haiti? Its like you have this staff member, who is a teacher in the midwifery school, and her daughter gives birth to this seriously disabled child? And they ignore him? You know, just like put him in corner for a couple of weeks? And he almost dies, in pain since the moment he was born? And then, you know, you find out about it, and you start to question if she should be on staff of a midwifery school when this is what she has allowed to happen in her own home. Right? Obviously. But the executive director just ignores you? So your program manager adopts this poor child, because his wife has had so many miscarriages. And you hold him, but every second he is grasping for air. His eyes are bulging. He is just this tiny little life in your hands, and he has never experienced life without suffering. And his adoptive parents are doing everything they can. But of course he dies. And you know? When you go to the funeral with the tiniest casket you have ever seen. And at the cemetery they reach into the crypt and pull out old bones to make room for it. You get it, right? Yeah, so crazy, they just throw them to the side and manhandle that little casket in there! 

Oh you are gluten free now? I hear that is a great move. 

So you know what's wild about Haiti? How you are the director of a maternal health organization, and one of your students dies, right after giving birth, the week of graduation? How your clinical director and volunteer coordinator spend all night in the hospital trying to save her, but she still just dies? Because the hospital is filthy, and has no running water, and is run by a sociopath? And the class comes to rehearse for graduation, and they find out, and their cries literally echo throughout the house where you both live and work. Wailing. Screaming. It shakes your room? That is so Haiti. And then afterwards your volunteer coordinator, who works 14 hours a day, and is 20 years old, asks to sleep in your bed with you because all she can hear when she tries to sleep is that student saying she doesn't want to die? Yeah, Haiti is wild. Oh yeah, it was graduation, so the executive director was there but she didn't do anything for the staff to try to process it. So Haiti! 

So what are you doing this summer? Any plans?

Well for me, I'm just working through this whole "air quotes PTSD" thing! LOL. Yeah I have been drinking a lot, and gaining weight, and kind of compulsively shopping since I've been home? Yeah you know. And like, getting into a normal hygiene routine. Yeah, having hot water is awesome. It turns out that you can eat things other than pringles, coke and rum! And apparently my new job doesn't require me to work 24/7 which is so so nice. Hahah yeah you got it. 

Anyway so good to see you! Thanks for listening, haha I'm so crazy right now. Absolutely this hour went by so fast? Haha yeah you are right, its just the tip of the ice burg. Yeah, happy hour sounds great. Just text me. See you then. 

renaissance

i feel like writing again.

i want to put more energy here. it has been too long.

thanks to anyone who still reads this.

i'm not dead, just a little dulled, like usual.

Ramadan Salah

Sometimes in the daytime we would see each other on the street, hiding under the fat green leaves that line mainstreet and wide-brimed straw hats to shelter ourselves from the blazing Ramadan sun. People shuffled around us, hungry, hot and tired, from stretches of sweltering hours without food or water. I shook your hand, maybe a moment too long, and glanced a few seconds too many at your handsome face.

Later you would come to my door, with your own key on your own time, and lay in my bed after the Maghrib prayer. The mosque shook and thundered with the prayer that released everyone from their fast. Every night you would pray, then eat eggs and dates and salty fried bread, then barely knock on my bedroom door before entering and devouring me with more hunger than the evening's breakfast. And that is where we would stay, unclothed, huddled together in front of my fan, as the streets filled with children and families reveling in the late hours.

They were just four stories down but seemed a lifetime away from my shuttered window. I would kiss your face, bury my head in your shoulder, sometimes cry, sometimes laugh. We listened to music and made love for hours.  Your skin was so soft and dark, your beard so harsh and clean. It started with a casual ease, because I was intensely sad and needed to be held. But by the end you could make my body shake like someone I had loved for years and I counted the seconds listening for the Imam to send you to me.

When I first moved in to this apartment, I would joke about what a princess I felt like high above the center city streets. Sometimes I lock myself in for days at a time to get a break from the bustle of the souk and the schoolchildren endlessly coming and going from class. But I never felt more isolated than in those times waiting for you. The minute hand dragged in extremely long ticks lingering for you, knowing you were out there, knowing I was waiting.

And the one who sent you to me would take you away, calling out from the minaret that it was the time to have juice and cookies and prepare for another long day of fasting. As the sun peeked back into the sky I was always alone, stretched out in my now empty bed, dreaming of your kisses on my back.

I hope I look as good as you when I am 31

I am trying to remember what I thought people in their early thirties were like when I was in my early twenties.

To be honest, I don't think I knew very many people at all at that age during that time. If I did then they were probably people who hung around college kids, in which case my perception was greatly skewed.

I probably thought about women in their early thirties as moms or as serious professionals. I thought they were old, I guess. Any man in his early thirties who persued me was definitely thought of as old. And creepy. Which is smart and true and accurate.

My age was definitely one of my major concerns about joining the Peace Corps. Would I be the old one? Would everyone else be white boys with dred locks fresh out of college, waving around their prehistoric basket weaving degree like they know everything in the world?

When I studied in the south of France at the age of 19, there was a married couple who also came on the same program. The husband was in school for art and wanted to take his wife with him to study abroad. Her name was Laura and she was magical. She had short brunette hair and an infectious laugh. I gravitated toward her like foam to the surface of an ocean wave. I would cry to her about my mean boyfriend back in the US, and how I missed my mom, and how humiliated I was at the store buying jambon fume with my shy French. She would then cuddle me, and serve me wine, and pour out good olive oil with pepper into a little dish for a fresh baguette. She had her bachelor's degree in social work and was married to a handsome artist. And she never made me feel silly or young for my frivolous little spells or fits.

She was like a mother to me. Looking back now, she was probably around 26 years old.

Yes

.

So I probably did think women in their early thirties were old.

My roommate in Morocco at our orientation hotel and I were talking the first night of our arrival and when she put together some of my timeline she whispered, almost under her breath, "how old are you?"

"31," I said.

"Oh wow!" she exclaimed. "Me too! I thought I was the only one!"

I felt a rush of relief. I had met other volunteers in our group who were older, but just to find someone my age was like a little miracle. "She understands me!" I thought to myself.

Then our other roommate came in.

"It is so funny," I said to her. "We just discovered we are both 31!"

"Really?" she said. "I hope I look as good as you when I am 31," she stated, with an aura of disbelief.

I know she meant well. I know she was trying. But the way she said it- the way she looked at me with big eyes- the tone in her voice told me "you look so young! how are you so old????"

So I guess I need to accept that most of the people here are younger than me. And they will probably look at me like a sweet grandmother. But I can find a tribe of 30-somethings and rest knowing that my experience will be different (and in my opinion, better) because of my age.

Except there is the matter of overnight trains to Venice.

When I was younger and pretending to be a member of the new Lost Generation, galavanting around Europe without a care in the world, I would hop on trains often. The way we dealt with night trains was easy- drink enough wine that you are warm and sleepy and then wake up (hopefully) in Brussels! Or Munich! Or wherever you were supposed to go. "Why pay for a night of hotel when we can sleep on the train?" was a common philosophy.

To be fair, I am sure at that age I complained of being cramped or cold or impatient, but I remember none of it. I just remember being happy and rosy cheeked and eating up the world like a mortadella panini. So last year when I planned to visit Venice for the first time with an illfated paramour it seemed like a no-brainer to take the overnight train down from Munich, arrive awake and happy and ready to take on the canals.

This did not go as planned.

The train cars were sold out, and we did not book a sleeping car. So we attemped for about 10 minutes to squeeze into one of the six seats of the car, rubbing knees with the other passengers. Giving up quickly, we moved to the luggage car where I lay my coat on the cold metal floor and sat, shivering, listening to autobiographies on tape for the entire night while cursing my life and counting sad, tired, 30 year old sheep. The travelers who had also decided to crash there (probably without tickets) made video blogs and drank whiskey and then passed out curled together in a heap. I envied them. When the train finally arrived in Venice I said to my travel companion, "I am just getting too old for this." And I felt a little part of me die inside. I then promptly started snoring on the small banquette in the lobby of the hotel where they were preparing our room.

It is true I am not the same person I was when I slept in hostel rooms with 12 other people or hid in bathrooms to avoid train ticket fares. The question I had to ask myself then was if I was still the kind of person that would join the Peace Corps. Luckily, after many nights awake staring at the ceiling, I decided that: yes, I am still the sort of person who can join the Peace Corps.

Just because I know what being pampered feels like and in most cases I prefer it does not mean that all my rough and tumble training has fallen by the wayside. I can do everything that the newly college grad can do, though maybe not yoga or marathons, at least not as well. I know how to make the saddest apartment a lovely place to live with just a sewing kit and a vision. I know how to make great friends who will make me feel at home whenever I am with them, and I can return the favor by cooking them shrimp and grits or making art together. I know how to brush things off, like the power going out for random intervals or the shower going cold for 3 days.

I may not always like it, but I can handle it. I can handle it and I will. Even at 31. Lookin' good.

sleep

I was a nervous child. When I was in grade school and I couldn't sleep, I would sit wrapped in my blanket next to my nightlight and read chapter books until my little eyes would fall closed. I would hide at the top of the stairs and watch Welcome Back Cotter and Saturday Night Live behind my parents on the couch. I didn't realize at the time that my anxiety kept me awake, that my little brain was already processing all the stress I believed I had. I worried about my little 5th grade tummy and thighs because my mother said I hadn't lost my baby fat with sadness in her eyes. I internalized all the unhappiness in my family all around me that I didn't yet understand was not normal.

In high school I stayed up all night, not so unusual. I would write down all my fears in journals covered in fairies and glitter. I wrote all the time. I wrote letters I never sent to boys who broke my heart. I wrote letters to boys who's hearts I had broken. I reorganized my closet, and I wrote short stories about it. I romanticized my teenage adventures and worried I was not having enough of them. And if all else failed then I would call my friend Katie and we would watch late night infomercials together until the screens went to static and there was nothing left to sell.

In college I left my sleeping boyfriend in our bed in my first ever apartment and scrubbed the kitchen floor all night because I knew our relationship was over and I didn't know what to do with that information. I fretted about my classes, and my body, and my decisions. I worried about the future and all the unknowns that would come with it. The night before the LSAT I stalked along the floor of the basement of the house where I grew up and considered changing everything and everyone and doing everything I could to assure never feeling so frightened again. But it wasn't the last time. It is never the last time.

In law school I would just drink.

And now I sit in my bed, listening to the morning call to prayer pour out of the mosque, seeing the first glimpses of day creeping in through my shutters, wondering what I will be doing with my life and if I really want to get married at all. Will I find a passion after this that will fullfill me emotionally and financially and and and and

Will he really be the one who will become my real partner in this crazy life? When I look into his big brown eyes I want to believe I will be able to sleep, with him, forever. I just want to be able to sleep.

excerpt from a letter to Chester

February 9th, 2006

L'Ile de la Reunion

other than that i am eating a lot of active bacteria yogurt and perfecting the art of wearing scarves as dresses. now that we have a car in our life we are free as birds. 

the truth is i just really really want to be kissed.

also, i am getting over my post-madagascar depression. not that i was depressed, but it was a really weird thing. like i would look at diet coke, and think about how they don't have that in madagascar, and it would make me want to cry. diet coke?! what a ridiculous idea for a starving country, or any country. anyway, that sort of thing. but i am adjusting again. its horrible, but in a way i just have to accept a lot of things about my life, because otherwise you'll drive yourself mad thinking about all the things you have and all the things other people dont have. 

oh chester, what if i don't get accepted to any law schools? oh, oh, oh. sorry, i try and try not to think about it, but that little annoying thought just always creeps into my mind, in the morning, at tea, and laying in bed at night. i am not thinking about it. i am not thinking about it. i am not thinking about it. 

meet me in Casablanca

As soon as I stood up I knew I had made a terrible mistake.

I was at the far end of a dirty baggage carousel in the Philadelphia airport. At my feet was a giant purple roller bag resembling a stroller for quadruplets, a massive army canvas duffel bag that had looked *just perfect* on Amazon a few weeks earlier but was now obviously the girth of a Volkswagen, and my new REI backpack filled to the brim, complete with dangling nylon sleeping bag sack that had hit against my ankles as I walked.

There was no way I was going to be able to carry all of this even the short distance from the baggage claim to the taxi by myself.

Getting my bags on the plane had not been such a problem. Jon swung the duffel bag over his broad shoulder and rolled the purple monster to the counter with ease. I let the overstuffed backpack drop to my knees and made my most convincing puppy dogs eyes, mumbling something about "books for the African children..." as the ticketing agent weighed my luggage. She avoided eye contact as she unemotionally stated "11 pounds over. That will be a $75 charge."

The purple monster was supposed to be the easy one. It was filled only with clothes and light shoes and some toiletries. But for the past 6 months I had been on a clothes-buying frenzy, spun up into a panic over what to wear in my new Islamic home. It is hard for a girl blessed with extreme decolletage to find shirts that cover just-so, and as someone who hadn't worn pants regularly in close to a decade I struggled for the right thing. I shopped and shopped and shopped. Peasant tops. Wide leg linen pants. Comfortable walking ballet slippers. And as much as I claimed to suffer replacing my circle skirted rainbow colored party dresses with unflattering, shapeless maxi skirts, it was nothing compared to the actual packing.

Because the actual packing, the actual placement of the myriad of new things bought expressly for my trip, made leaving my life and my love for 2 years entirely too real and immediate. Each time I would try to start dropping a sock or handkerchief into an empty bag I would feel the urge to crawl into a ball of mush on the ground and never leave the house, let alone the country, ever again. I was packing up until the moment I left the house on Sunday's rainy, dismal morning.

The night before I had mostly divided and packed all the things I had collected and researched and gathered with care. I weighed the bags on my old and beat up bathroom scale, so I knew they were overweight. But I just couldn't fathom pulling out some or all of the smushed objects and rejecting them from my trip. I was already too emotionally drained. "Fuck that," I thought. "Who charges a Peace Corps Volunteer for luggage anyway??"

What I had not completely considered was the small problem of being able to physically carry all of my luggage myself. An idea that was evident and pathetic as I stood in the Philadelphia airport, surrounded by luggage, lay in a bed of my own making.

"Do you need help, miss?" came a voice from behind. It was a valet with a large trolley.

"I can't do this," I said. "I can't do this," I said to myself as well. He loaded up the monsters on the cart and rolled them out to the taxi stand for me, in the freezing grey January Philly rain.

The next day, after sitting through cheesy team-building exercises and safety classes, the bellhop at the hotel loaded my wagons full of bricks onto the buses and I later grabbed a cart to wheel them up to the counter while checking into my flight.

The ticketing agent looked at my passport and my Peace Corps pins. He said my name in Arabic.

"Say it again?" I asked, and he did.

"In two years I will be saying it better than you do," I said, smiling at him. "You will see me and say 'How does that Moroccan girl speak such good English!'"

He weighed my bags and when he saw the number he glanced a me disapprovingly.

"Just this once?" I asked, with a little wink. "I promise I'll bring them back empty."

He smiled at me. "Just this once," he said as he handed me my boarding passes. I felt light without my colossal luggage as it  rolled away into the mystery of the airport guts.

I added myself to the security line to find my plane that would take me across the ocean to Morocco. And I was feeling like I can do this. 

I think I can do this. I have not made a huge mistake. 

October Break

I drank too much at the wedding. Like I had too much to drink the weekend before, and the weekend before that. Surrounded by the celebration and long banquet tables, I downed glass after glass after glass of champagne and danced under the moonlit trees, because at one time that made me happy.  One more glass to happiness.

I remember leaving the wedding but I don't remember getting to your place across town. The in-between was a blur of highway lights and your hip hop on the radio. I knew you were angry. But you wouldn't say so. You never said so. You would just look at me so heartbroken, so let down, as if I was the greatest disappointment. I believe you thought this was kind; but I wanted instead to feel the sting of your words, like I wanted to feel the sting of your hand against my thighs. But you, in your infinite gentleness, would never give me either.

I awoke in your bed in the earliest of morning hours, my deep purple bridesmaid dress crumpled on the floor, bobby pins scattered amok. The red wine stain on the sheet was a messy reminder that I was still searching for that liquid exuberance when we got home. I put my hand to my aching forehead and grasped behind me to the nightstand for a glass of water. After a year and a half in that bed I didn't need to turn the light on. I knew every foot of your studio, like I knew every inch of your body. Every centimeter of your soft lips. I don't remember if I had you that night. I probably did. I probably wanted to feel that closeness from you that only came from your body and not your mind.

You rustled from my movement and faced me. I could see your long dark eyelashes unobscured by your glasses. My face flushed and my eyes welled up with salty tears.

I thought about how scared I was that I was turning 30, and how terrified I was of being back in my hometown, and how devastated I was in my myriad of disappointments. At the time I thought you could make all that better. I thought if I loved you enough I would love myself again. I could not have loved you more, yet I was still covered in layers of heavy worry.

I cried harder, sobbing, burying my head in the blankets.
Then I made you say it. I made you give me those hard, merciless, necessary words.

 "Tell me you don't love me. Tell me you don't want to be with me anymore," I pleaded.

So you did. You said it. It was over. Of course you said you did love me but I could, perhaps for the first time, hear the ting of emptiness in those words.  I cried until I fell asleep from exhaustion, and when I awoke again a few hours later I kissed your beautiful face for the last time, held your solid, tall body in my arms for a last embrace, then walked out of your apartment and your life.

why I turn my phone off at night

alternate title:

that was 6 years ago how did you get this number?

Pretty sure it is XI. He was only brave when drunk.

silly silly silly boys. 

The evolution of an online dating relationship

I would have said no to you
but I have a rule
the -yes- rule,
always say yes. Cast a wide net.
In your message you sounded
arrogant,
a little self involved, and condescending.
I hate
older men
being condescending.

But yes I said-
always say yes.

My GPS led me wrongly and I was an hour
late to our date-
I almost canceled-
me: angry on I-75, to a date I didn't want, my little black dress rubbing my thighs--

yet you were so sweet and patient,
didn't even give me grief. I saw you in the light of my favorite restaurant-
you were short and needed a haircut,
a tailor, and a bit of that overconfidence you alluded to
in your short notes. Your eyes went wide and soft.

I liked it.

The next time we went
somewhere
much
too expensive,
and not even worth it-
my oysters were dry and the
chairs were too stuffy.
But when we spoke I felt
happy,
comfortable and
cool.
We went to your house and
you offered me wine,

your hand shook while you passed the glass
of dark red liquid-
'Are you ok?' I asked
'You're just so pretty' you said meekly, and
I was in.

So glad I said yes, I thought.

The next time I saw you
I had been working all day-
my feet and head
ached, and the weariness was
all over my face.
You made me dinner at your home-
the little shotgun house
that whispered New Orleans in my ears.
Was it the steak from the grill? The wine from the rack? Encapsulation of gentrification mixed with graffiti and blackberry bushes?
You told me about your ex-wife, your mother,
your DUI and your writing dreams- your best clients, your worst clients,
and your dog who died two years ago.
You kissed me with your whole body// your whole soul.

I fell into your bed like so many particles of dust.

The next date was a pub,
and you were there in
physical presence only; for two seconds on your couch afterward I had you-
I cuddled your head onto my chest and
chalked it up to
a busy day.

Then came the picnic.
I packed up the cheese, the ruby ripe strawberries,
the carefully crafted sangria, and took my car to
the soft grass of the mountain.
You seemed despondent, distracted- you leaned in to kiss me
goodbye
and I turned my head, automatically, unconsciously: your lips fell on my cheek.
We made a quick date for the next weekend.
I watched your car pull from my driveway with a spinning head-

I sent you one message
"Are you not into this anymore?"
and never heard from you again.

things I am afraid of

standardized tests

my own body

unnecessary failure

the truth

losing what I never appreciated

being exposed as a fraud

waste

Independence weekend

It was the most sparkling fireworks display I had ever seen. I leaned into him, breathing him, his smell of lake water and beer and sunscreen. The boat was gently rocking back and forth and I slid slightly on the vinyl seating. I felt really happy, and calm. 

"That was beautiful," I said. I kissed him on the cheek. 

"Yeah I told you so," he said, then turned to speak to the boat driver. 

--

All his friends, save few, were couples. There were a few of each: the married ones, the engaged ones, and the simply in-love ones. One of the married ones invited us out to her parent's lake house for the 4th of July. Apparently among them this was a tradition. A few days of drinking, swimming, sunning, and games. He hadn't invited me the year before, when we had only been together for about 4 months or so. But this year our relationship was a growing toddler so he called me up and told me we were going and to pack a swimsuit. 

It was the hottest summer in a long time and I had been stuck at the house for the bulk of it, so I was ecstatic to go. I liked the friends, the married ones and the engaged ones and the in-love ones too. And I wanted them to like me. 

He had a habit, since we first got together, of inviting me along with them and then abandoning me post haste. The first month or so that we were dating we went to a wedding, the married-couple-lake-house wedding in fact. I knew absolutely no one there, and barely knew him. Because he was a groomsmen we stayed for the weekend, and because he was a groomsmen he spent 80% of the time with the wedding party drinking whiskey, running through the rehearsal, and generally ignoring me. This left me to mingle with complete strangers for extended hours. When it was over I felt mixed. I felt he had used me as an accessory, "a date." But I was proud that I held my own- happy that I seemed to be getting back to that social person I once was. But I was angry that he didn't appreciate my effort- that I played so well the part of "a date." I considered calling it off and chalking it up to an awkward time. But on the way home we stopped for chicken sandwiches and he apologized and I made a mental note to give him another chance. 

It was impossible not to think of that wedding while we were making the drive up into the Georgia mountains on July 3rd. But that was over a year before and I had since spent time with the friends and really enjoyed their company. They were a silly group- always laughing and cutting up. They were smart and interesting and successful. And they were all in love. And they all had a plan, it seemed. 

The lake house was fantastic, hidden in the trees with a giant staircase descending down down down to the sprawling boat house, stocked with vodka and bud light and checkers. We spent the days playing beer pong until the heat and the liquor made our heads spin, choosing then to jump from the high ledge into the cool green water of the lake. At this point I was used to his distance and knew how to handle it. When I could tell he wasn't interested in me being around I would go help the girls bring down the sandwiches for lunch or float in the gossip circle in the water. 

When night fell on the 4th the mosquitoes and guests were buzzing. The wealthy residents of the lake community were really proud of their annual fireworks shows and poured huge money into the display. They could be seen up close and personal by taking a boat out to a central part of the lake, or people could go up to the top of the mountain in the clubhouse and watch the display from afar. The boat had something like 8 places. I asked him where we were going to watch the fireworks. 

"I think you should go in the boat," he said. "You haven't ever seen them before and that is the best place to be." 

"Are you going in the boat?" I asked. 

"No, I don't think so," he replied. "I have seen them before and there are others here who haven't so I would feel bad taking a place. I'll go up to the club with the others." 

"I'll go to the club too, then," I told him. "I want to be with you." 

"You should go in the boat," he repeated, clearly annoyed. "They are really good and I think you will want to see them there." I could tell he thought I was being needy, or annoying, or unreasonable. Of course he never actually said these things- never told me when something bothered him or made him upset. Instead he would just blink his eyes a little too slowly, breathe out in a heavy and labored way, and stay quiet much too long, as if he was measuring his responses much too intensely. 

I fed on his energy and tried to explain, my own frustration coming across in my tone. "I just want to watch them with you. I don't care where we watch them. Why does that make you mad?" I asked sharply. 

"I'm not angry," he said, of course. "Look, I'll go see who is all going in the boat." He disappeared, taking all his furrow and tepidness with him. And that was how all of our "fights" were- him, clearly annoyed, blocking me out. Me, sensing the stress, overcompensating by tense coaxing. The argument, in the end, of course not being about fireworks or boats or clubhouses. 

A bit later I was called for to go to the boat. Somehow he got both our names on the short list of seats. This annoyed me even more. I didn't want the others to think I was being difficult or spoiled and I was afraid he had told them that I wouldn't get on the boat without him. And that wasn't the case at all. I just wanted to be with him, no matter where. I wanted to watch the fireworks together and see the sparkles on his face and kiss and touch and be near. I climbed down into the little speed boat with several married ones and a few engaged ones. 

The dark air flying by the boat as we made our way to the area was cold and refreshing. We were surrounded by other boats dressed in colored lights and blasting stereos. The water slushed under all the motors. But when the display started the crowd went quiet and the water went still. Every few seconds a new ball of fire would shoot up into the sky and explode all over, raining below. It was beautiful. 

I kissed his cheek. "I told you so," he said. 

And as we made our way back to the house I closed my eyes and let the humid air hit my face and turn my nose red. 

All I wanted to do was watch the fireworks with you. 

All I wanted to do was experience life with you. 

break up redux

some things i have written about being broken-hearted in the past

the news

former major organ; or american love poem

bath water

understanding

eulogy to a failed relationship

i'm breaking your monopoly on my words/ breaking with a snap/ snap

california postscript

i'm sorry i'm not

off the mark

perspectives





(research? do i learn nothing?)

The Charleston Hotel

We walked through the upset sidewalks of Charleston back to where we had parked the car in front of a large old southern house. My tummy was full of Cotes du Rhone and foie gras. The city wasn’t loud but it was vibrant, with girls in dresses and boys in collared shirts walking up and down the city streets, in and out of bars and restaurants- giggling, arguing, whispering loudly. Your hand felt so big in my hand, and in my flats I was petite beside your tall, lean frame.

At dinner you talked about being a little boy. Do you think you had a lonely childhood? I can imagine you as a little boy, running around the neighborhood, squishing ants and collecting crickets. We went to the same elementary school for one year, but you were a year below me. Do you think we passed in the halls?  I was 7 and you were 6. All I remember about that school is the sprawling cemetery across the grounds, with big, old tombstones engraved with Confederates and their wives. I wrote a story there about Batman that won an award and I read it out over the morning announcements. Did you like my Batman story? Did you pull the onion grass from the ground and stick it under other little girls’ noses?

We held hands as we strolled across the road under the Charleston streetlights. Your legs are long and I had to take quick little steps to keep up. The lights blurred a bit from the wine, and the breeze was cool on our faces. Back at the hotel I quickly got undressed and tossed myself in the huge, white bed. It wasn’t long before I was snoozing away even before taking advantage of a goodnight kiss.

I wonder what your first kiss was like. Did you laugh?

You said you had braces in high school. Were you embarrassed about them? I was. I didn’t smile in pictures for two years.  I don’t guess you were embarrassed. It is hard to see you embarrassed about much. Your face stays calm and easy, your gait and body lack tension and stress. Very, very cool. It is hard to read you most of the time. By comparison I am a disaster. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions all over my face.

When we first got together I was terrified of you. It was the first time in my life I met a man who was kind and mature, caring and secure. It was the first time I met someone stable and open to loving and exploring. I wanted to run so far away from this. And sometimes I still do, almost a year later.

In the morning the sun streamed in through the semi open curtains and the “do not disturb” card lightly slapped against the back of the hotel door. You seemed really far away in the boat of a bed so I curled next to you and kissed your head and neck softly. It was still and calm, and I put my lips next to your ear and whispered “I love you.” It was the first time in ten years and dozens of beds I was sincere. You were still, cool, and silent for a minute. Then, “I love you too” you said, pulling your arms around me and pressing your cheek to my chest.

Maybe American boys aren’t so bad and maybe it is okay to need someone sometimes?

lettuce be kind

He may have gone to Middle School with us in 6th grade, but the first time I met him was in 7th grade. He was hard to miss, even in our class of about 350 students. 


I want to make it clear that I was no fashionista in 1995. I was completely unaware of how to dress my (quickly) budding curves. I do remember wearing my fair share of homemade vests, preciously curated by my mother that often helpfully reflected the season. This is the result of having a mother who worked part time at the local fabric store. My pants consisted mostly of hand-me-down Gloria Vanderbilt jeans from my various aunts, and I do recall that little backpacks and loafers had come into style as a result of Clueless. However, despite my hardcore look, to be fashionable in my little middle school at that time you had to rock Tommy Hilfiger tshirts with designer jeans or anything from Abercrombie and Fitch. These duds were paired with white Nike tennis shoes over long white athletic socks. Clearly our town was the center of southern American fashion. 


Regardless it didn't much matter what he wore. In fact, I don't remember at all what he wore. It was probably the same as all the other boys- oversized tshirts and jeans. His name was Jeffrey and he was the most awkward looking person I had ever come across. He wasn't particularly tall, but he was very thin; his thinness was accented by his pale white skin. As he sat in his plastic chair with attached old desk boney knees poked out from under mesh athletic shorts, and boney elbows rested on the vandalized wood of the desktop. I won't say his last name here, but believe me that it was rife with potential for torturous teasing. 


Jeffrey was a little blond boy with constantly ruffled hair. He probably had a cute face but it was covered more than 3/4 of the way by thick, plastic glasses that would slide down his nose. The only part of his face left visible were two thin lips, and when he smiled he revealed a massive set of buck teeth. 


Looking back now it was almost too perfect of a stereotype. I know plenty of nerdy guys today, many of whom rock thick rim glasses and are proud of their anti-fashion stance. But 12 and completely unaware of how the outside world really sees you is when true geeks are born. This poor boy didn't stand a chance against middle school. When he spoke his voice was high and squeaky. He twitched and moved in his chair, constantly uncomfortable. I can only imagine how the boys treated him. I didn't make fun of him, but then again I didn't not make fun of him. 


But the real kicker to this story is when, one day, I don't know how, someone discovered Jeffrey's kryptonite: This boy was afraid of lettuce. 


Got that? This boy was afraid of lettuce. 


It is a mystery to me how someone figured this out, but once it was out the rest of the year became a battle of Jeffrey vs the lettuce wielders. They would pocket the shredded iceberg from the cafeteria and leave it on his chair, sprinkle it in his hair, or tuck it into his backpack. Each time Jeffrey would jump, shriek  and squeal. Sometimes he would shake. We would all laugh and the teacher would yell. Then it would be over, the battle won once again by the iceberg mafia. 


I don't remember seeing Jeffrey at all after that year. He may have finished middle school with us in 8th grade but he wasn't in any of my classes. He didn't go on to the high school where the majority of us were funneled, either. I assumed he had been taken out and home schooled. 


I don't know what got me thinking about Jeffrey. Maybe because my little cousin is in middle school now and his lanky body and metal filled mouth make me giggle. Maybe it is this new campaign that makes bullying the biggest buzzword. Maybe it was my brother's 30th birthday party last weekend that brought me face to face with some people I knew at that time and haven't seen in 10 or more years. But I started thinking about him, and wondering where he had ended up. 


The media tells us what happened to poor Jeffrey. Just look at any teen movie or young adult novel. If popular culture is to be believed Jeffrey has ended up in one of two places:

Jeffrey of 2011 could be a master of technological innovation, rolling in the dough and laughing at the rest of us in this sad economy. Of course he would still be wearing something ridiculous like a leisure suit, but it would be with irony and a firm 'fuck you' to whomever doesn't like it.
On the other hand, Jeffrey of 2011 could have decided, once puberty hit, that he didn't have to live that way anymore. He may have channeled all his anger at 12 year old boys and dentists and lettuce into the gym, where he pumped enough weight to double in size. Of course, this physique would make him irresistible to the ladies. 

The power of the internet can reveal all mysteries. So I typed in his name and let google do the magic. 


The first thing that I found was a facebook page, revealing that Jeffrey still lives near where we went to school. He got a masters in Information Systems at the local college. His picture shows a man with thinning blond hair, and yes, thick glasses. But he looked positively average. He was neither super geek millionaire nor body builder with a chip on his shoulder. It was pretty anti-climactic. I clicked back to the google search to just give one more glance and that is where I found it: a youtube video of Jeffrey added three months ago. 


I opened it to see the inside of an Applebees. Jeffrey strolls up to a microphone connected to a small machine. He is as he was in his facebook picture but we can see his large black Ke$ha t-shirt. He speaks briefly and I immediately hear that old voice from all those years ago. It is so high and peculiar, so difficult to place. He now has no front teeth. His arms still skinny, though now he has a round beer belly above his jeans. He then dives into a passionate rendition of Ke$ha's song "blow" for the captive beer guzzling, mozzarella stick nibbling audience. 

Go, go, go, go insane 

Go insane

Throw some glitter

Make it rain on him

Let me see them Hanes

Let me, let me see them Hanes

I cringed. Who would put this video up online ? I felt immediately like I was again the girl three seats over, seeing all this mockery and keeping my mouth shut. However, it wasn't the same. This video was posted by Jeffrey himself, from an account proudly stating his full real name. 


So I guess that is all that matters, right? So he's still a weirdo. But he's embracing it; it seems like he is getting along just fine. And that is all any of us can really do, right? 

home is where your heart was

I would like to keep my home in that happy place in my memory- I would like to remember riding my bike to the local library, jumping on the trampoline, walking through the church at high school graduation. It was good here, I swear- I do not even remember the heat or the heartache. I remember just ballet recitals and birthday parties, bike rides and card games, first kisses and kickball.

It is hard to romanticize your home when you are forced back. I do not want those fancy dreams to be tainted by the loss and loneliness I feel here now. I want to keep loving my home forever,

so I better get out of here fast.

Le Cardinal Cafe

I was just wandering the streets, clearing my mind in the brisk, sharp air. The sky was the color of apathy and the people were all bundled up in scarves and hats. I had already stopped for a coffee near my place- where I sat warm and at ease writing a million letters to a million people. I stopped by the post office and mailed all the little thoughts out across the ocean.

Regretting wearing only my little black ballerina slippers instead of my cushy winter boots, I wrapped myself up tight and started walking. I crossed by Notre Dame- how it was almost camouflaged against the grey sky!- and continued down the Seine towards wherever.

I passed Shakespeare and Company, the cello maker, and two Italian tourists shouting at each other in the road. Before I knew it my watch said it was near 3 and my tummy growled- empty except the coffee and cream. I passed a brasserie, same as any other, and ducked inside from the cold.

As I stripped off all my outer layers and ordered a mulled wine, I realized I had just walked into a 1960’s Goddard film. The bar was long and plated in metal, smudged with the fingerprints of lunch guests. A few men sat there, mid 40s, with glasses full of rosé, discussing something serious in hushed tones, close to each other. Behind the bar was a man with a flop of dark hair and a striped shirt, wiping down the espresso machine and turning the glass jar of Madeleines.  The chef stood at the door of the kitchen, bored now that lunch was finished for the say; he surveyed the old men sitting to my right.

They sat, chatting, and one could tell that they hadn’t moved all day. Every time a man with silver hair and a long umbrella would walk in the door with a fresh blast of winter they would say “Hello young man!” and drag him in to conversation for a spell. One snacked on a crème caramel while the other refilled their glasses with wine from a small carafe. A tall, younger man entered and the table shouted “Bonjour Olivier!” but Olivier managed to avoid their grasp, taking a quick coffee at the bar before disappearing back into the latin quarter. A man in shocking red pants and a Burberry scarf joined them at their small table and they cried “Hey bartender! This guy needs a glass of wine! Hurry!”

To my left sat an older couple, resembling each other as many years of marriage will do. She drank a perrier and he had a coca cola, and at their feet was the largest, fluffiest black dog I have ever seen- dozing away happily on the cold tile. “Is he nice?” I asked, then scratched his head, feeling only handfuls of fur.

Beside the cooler displaying chocolate mousse in sundae cups, small crème caramels, a cherry clafouti, a large white bûche de noel, and bottles of Cotes de Provence and Sancerre, a man in small glasses, the owner I presume, sat quietly. He had a large calculator to one side, a large rubber stamp on the other, and a stack of papers in front. He held his face close to the papers as he read, lifting only to sip from his tiny espresso cup.

A Christmas tree blinked in the corner and the speakers buzzed with a quiet jazz piano. The light snow flurries turned to freezing drops of rain and the old men cried “another!” at the man in the striped shirt. 

A True Story of Unshakable Naivety

It was less than a month ago when I first called him. I'm not sure quite why. I wasn't very lonely- I had been seeing some other guys casually. I guess it was curiosity? Maybe I really did miss him, somehow? I do know that I was still angry. It was only two years ago, the last time I saw him, that he had pushed my heart through a meat grinder. 


I remember so well when it happened- a hot, humid July day. We had already been on the rocks- his obsessive jealously was so overwhelming at times I would just scream and scream with no release. When he started going through my phone and peeking in my journal, I knew it had gone too far. And I was generally at a really bad place in my life- in the middle of law school, leaving Paris again, questioning my future with him and Paris and life in general. And then came the knowledge, like a shotgun to the chest: he was seeing someone else. And I cried, and cried. I wondered when I had ever decided to let my guard down with a French man anyhow, as I have never known one to be faithful. My rule was easy- I can play the game. Everyone has fun and no one gets hurt. But he told me he loved me, and my tummy needed to feel it so badly that I believed him. 


But that was two years ago. 


So I called him. I think I wanted an apology, finally. Or at least some satisfaction. And expecting anything from him was the second mistake. I heard his voice and my heart died all over again. I cried, I asked why, I yelled. I hung up the phone, the release unsatisfactory. He called again and again. "I want to see you" he said. "I want to say I am sorry and I missed you" he said. A few weeks later, in a moment of weakness, I gave in. 


It was late and cold, too many clouds to see any stars. He arrived and I poured us both a strong glass of whiskey. It started with more yelling. I tried to be cold to him but I could not control it. So much anger, like a rolling ball of fuzz and dust, smashed into my stomach, not budging. And then I cried. And he held me. And then hours later I was still crying, but now not because of him, but because of myself and my uncertainties and my own little demons. And he was still holding me. And when we kissed it was like two years ago, before everything went bad, when he could still make me blush and giggle. 


In the morning we went for coffee like we always did- he his espresso with plenty of cigarettes, and me with my cafe creme, leafing through the paper. It was cozy and comfortable and I felt my body relax as it hadn't in a while. When he left I tried to analyze the situation but it was much easier to push it out of my mind. We started talking on the phone, meeting for a glass of champagne, and sweet text messages late at night. 


**


Then he showed up one afternoon, with take out and coca cola and all smiles. We snacked and talked and cuddled, then stayed in bed all afternoon. We made love and kissed each other and talked about our lives for the last two years and life in general. We listened to music and he flicked cigarette ash out my window. An endless stream of dressing and undressing. I remembered every centimeter of his chocolate eyes. He kissed my nose and called me old pet names. The window turned from bright to dark as the day turned into a grey evening. "I should go" he said. 


"Lets go out and have a cocktail," I suggested. "I haven't left the apartment all day and it is apero hour." 


"Just one," he said, and we took the tiniest elevator in Paris down to the street and then out to the square and down the street to a pub. Typical pub, all dark wood and smelling of Guinness and fried foods. We sat at the bar and chatted and ordered, a beer for him, a gin and tonic for me- extra limes. When he left to smoke outside the door an English guy next to me struck up a conversation. At his return, I felt his mood change immediately. "I'm just talking," I said. "Do you want to go soon?"


"I want to go" he said, "but I can see you want to stay." I had no intention of staying without him but regardless he ordered more drinks and stood by me like a bulldog. But every time we would finish a round, and he would go out to smoke, a new guy would start talking to me, and his jealously would compel him to stay at the pub with me and make himself angry anew each time he walked back through those doors, smelling of smoke and hops. When we finally left, much later, after several rounds and an order of french fries, he walked me  back up to my apartment, both of us full of kisses and spirits and nostalgia. 


"Can I come in?" he asked. 


"You can," I said. "But if you come in you have to stay the night."


"I can't do that," he said. "I can't stay here."


"Why?" I asked, twirling my fingers in his hair and looking at him with teasing eyes.


"I can't stay" he repeated. His face had now changed.


 "I have to go home. 


I have to go home because I live with my girlfriend."

today

is the 

worst

day. 

2 years ago, from email

Situation this afternoon: 
I am opening the door to the hallway and I see someone coming down the stairs and so I close the door really quickly to hide because I look like hell. So its my upstairs neighbor, he comes up to the room- door still jarred and says "Is someone there?" which is embarrassing because he obviously saw me avoiding him.

So, I am thinking he is about to kill me for all the noise in the apartment last night. So I sheepishly open the door and say "Oh hi! How are you? You know, I'm really sorry about all that noise last night. I was having a dinner party that didn't really start until 11 and we had some wine and anyway I'm sorry. I hope I didn't keep you up."

He's like "Oh, I just wanted to ask if I could crawl out your window to get something that fell on the roof."
 
So I say ok and I'm standing there, in my sweats, yesterdays makeup,hair a tangled mess, with my fucking SHEETS in my hands about to go to the washer, after randomly confessing to inviting people over last night,


 and thinking this is the first time in history someone took a walk of shame in their own apartment.