I always sit on this side of the C train
Don't think of it until Chambers and
I can't look for you at the station
Staring at the tiled "CHAMBERS"
It's been May to March, God,
almost a year already and yet
every. day. i. look. for. you.
imagining what I'd do
Dreading
Imagining what I'd say
Would I lose my shit?
Attack, black out like the convicts
claim they do
Come to and find a pile of lifeless
flesh in a puddle of blood
Would I pretend not to see you?
Or approach you, ask you pointedly
What, exactly?
I still can't untangle us
I don't know myself in relation to you.
There is no exaggeration in the statement,
"You lied about everything."
And yet
there is another truth
"I still love you."
Incongruous, dichotomy
Nothing makes sense if that is true
And it is.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
a week of writing
my last day at my old job was Tuesday, the one before Thanksgiving. the first day of the new one is next Monday. I'm taking a week off to write.
And here I am, blogging at 11 am on Tuesday, hoping i have enough to say to get me through the week. hoping i have enough to say to keep my hope alive that maybe someday i could do this, really do this, like, do this all the time, not just in the evenings or the mornings or the rare weeks between jobs.
Natalie Goldberg says, "It was important to give myself permission to fail. It is the only way to write. We can't live up to anyone's high standards, including our own...Kindness. It stemmed from kindness. I have always been kind to myself in the area of writing. I know if I'm not kind, if I get too tough, I'll get scared, close up, freeze."
I have never been kind to myself in the area of writing. I have been frozen; I am trying to unthaw. Yesterday, as I wrote, I felt light, free, weightless as a helium balloon climbing high, higher above the brownstones and the leafless trees. Today, I awoke terrified. Yesterday, all I cared about was getting the sludge out of my system. Today, there is pressure to Write. Capital W Write. I am trying to be kind, but kindness does not come easily. I haven't yet learned it.
And here I am, blogging at 11 am on Tuesday, hoping i have enough to say to get me through the week. hoping i have enough to say to keep my hope alive that maybe someday i could do this, really do this, like, do this all the time, not just in the evenings or the mornings or the rare weeks between jobs.
Natalie Goldberg says, "It was important to give myself permission to fail. It is the only way to write. We can't live up to anyone's high standards, including our own...Kindness. It stemmed from kindness. I have always been kind to myself in the area of writing. I know if I'm not kind, if I get too tough, I'll get scared, close up, freeze."
I have never been kind to myself in the area of writing. I have been frozen; I am trying to unthaw. Yesterday, as I wrote, I felt light, free, weightless as a helium balloon climbing high, higher above the brownstones and the leafless trees. Today, I awoke terrified. Yesterday, all I cared about was getting the sludge out of my system. Today, there is pressure to Write. Capital W Write. I am trying to be kind, but kindness does not come easily. I haven't yet learned it.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
a little late
Good news, minions!! I have acquired myself a brand-spanking-new job! But that's another post. Today's post is about dating, and the meaning of the phrase, "a little late."
So, here I am, all super-stoked about this great new job and wanting to celebrate. I've gone on a few dates with a man we will call The Jamaican, or TJ (and no, for those of you who know me, not THAT Jamaican. a different Jamaican.) In any case, this Jamaican is fun and attractive, and while not long-term material, when I text to tell him I got the job, he says, "We have to celebrate!" And so we make plans to meet at 9 for dinner at one of my favorite little holes-in-the-wall Italian places in the East Village.
But it is Friday. And I have had a loooooong week of working late, interviewing, waiting for job offers, getting job offers, telling one of my favorite bosses ever that I'm leaving, and just general stress and sleeplessness. All I really want to do is lay on the couch in my jammies. BUT, I have made plans, and so I go home, shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and put on a dress and tights and heels. About half an hour before we are supposed to meet, he texts: "I may be running a little late but not too late." I have expected this text. (He was late for the first 2 dates.) I have already adjusted my own schedule to arrive a few minutes late. So I respond: "Okay. No worries."
I arrive at the restaurant at 9:08. It's warm and dark and full of music and talking and the sound of silverware on plates. I wait for someone on the waitstaff to make eye contact and then ask if there is a list. He says no, I say I'm waiting for someone, and he directs me to sit. I'm surprised by this, since in New York, they rarely seat you until your entire party has arrived. But, as it is already almost 9:15, I assume TJ will be there soon and take a seat by the window. I order a glass of pinot noir. The bar is in front of me, full of talking, laughing people, including a few men who keep glancing over at me. The restaurant is full of couples and groups of friends. Basketball is playing on a small TV over the bar. My wine arrives and I check my phone. I text him to tell him that the restaurant is around the corner from the cross-streets I gave. Nothing. It is 9:20, then 9:25. I decide that if he hasn't arrived by the time I finish my wine, I'm leaving. The wait staff glances in my direction every time they walk by. I eat a piece of bread, trying to look calm. I know I'm not being stood up, but I begin to be embarrassed. After all, I am sitting alone in a restaurant at 9:30 on a Friday night, clearly waiting for someone. The looks on the men's faces at the bar turn (whether I imagined it or not, I don't know) from mild interest to mild pity. Same with the wait staff. I finish my wine. It is 9:40. I pay the waiter, apologize for taking up his table, and leave. There is definite pity in his voice when he says, "It's okay, miss." I calmly put on my scarf and coat and hold my head high as I leave. I imagine them all putting it together in their heads when TJ finally shows up, comes in, looks around, calls me, looks around again, calls again, and then leaves.
I start walking in the direction of the lower East side. I know some friends are out, so I call them and head in their direction, a little embarrassed but slightly relieved. This man has just made it incredibly easy for me to stop seeing him, which I will do. I get to the bar and relay my story. We sit and drink. I wait. Finally, at 10:03, he calls. I don't answer. Again, at 10:05. A text at 10:08. And then two more calls. All of which I ignore. At 10:35, a text to say he's sorry. I shrug and keep drinking. I am happier here with friends.
We had just decided to leave when who do I see passing the window in front of me to come into the bar than the best friend of the EX. THE ex. "Fuck." They ask what, and I tell them, as 3 other of his friends come into view. I wait for his face. Thank god it doesn't appear. I turned my face away from the door and put my hand up to my temple, hoping they wouldn't see me as they walked in. One of my friends said he thought I'd been spotted. I was shaken, my stomach in knots. We left without incident and went to a tapas place for some food, then to another bar. Finally, I got into a cab home around 2, glad that I'd spent my night the way I had, reaffirming to myself to do what I want to do next time, not what I feel obligated to do. It's so easy to feel like I "should" do something and ignore my gut when it says, "No, you really don't want to do it. Don't." It's a lesson I learn over and over again.
So, here I am, all super-stoked about this great new job and wanting to celebrate. I've gone on a few dates with a man we will call The Jamaican, or TJ (and no, for those of you who know me, not THAT Jamaican. a different Jamaican.) In any case, this Jamaican is fun and attractive, and while not long-term material, when I text to tell him I got the job, he says, "We have to celebrate!" And so we make plans to meet at 9 for dinner at one of my favorite little holes-in-the-wall Italian places in the East Village.
But it is Friday. And I have had a loooooong week of working late, interviewing, waiting for job offers, getting job offers, telling one of my favorite bosses ever that I'm leaving, and just general stress and sleeplessness. All I really want to do is lay on the couch in my jammies. BUT, I have made plans, and so I go home, shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and put on a dress and tights and heels. About half an hour before we are supposed to meet, he texts: "I may be running a little late but not too late." I have expected this text. (He was late for the first 2 dates.) I have already adjusted my own schedule to arrive a few minutes late. So I respond: "Okay. No worries."
I arrive at the restaurant at 9:08. It's warm and dark and full of music and talking and the sound of silverware on plates. I wait for someone on the waitstaff to make eye contact and then ask if there is a list. He says no, I say I'm waiting for someone, and he directs me to sit. I'm surprised by this, since in New York, they rarely seat you until your entire party has arrived. But, as it is already almost 9:15, I assume TJ will be there soon and take a seat by the window. I order a glass of pinot noir. The bar is in front of me, full of talking, laughing people, including a few men who keep glancing over at me. The restaurant is full of couples and groups of friends. Basketball is playing on a small TV over the bar. My wine arrives and I check my phone. I text him to tell him that the restaurant is around the corner from the cross-streets I gave. Nothing. It is 9:20, then 9:25. I decide that if he hasn't arrived by the time I finish my wine, I'm leaving. The wait staff glances in my direction every time they walk by. I eat a piece of bread, trying to look calm. I know I'm not being stood up, but I begin to be embarrassed. After all, I am sitting alone in a restaurant at 9:30 on a Friday night, clearly waiting for someone. The looks on the men's faces at the bar turn (whether I imagined it or not, I don't know) from mild interest to mild pity. Same with the wait staff. I finish my wine. It is 9:40. I pay the waiter, apologize for taking up his table, and leave. There is definite pity in his voice when he says, "It's okay, miss." I calmly put on my scarf and coat and hold my head high as I leave. I imagine them all putting it together in their heads when TJ finally shows up, comes in, looks around, calls me, looks around again, calls again, and then leaves.
I start walking in the direction of the lower East side. I know some friends are out, so I call them and head in their direction, a little embarrassed but slightly relieved. This man has just made it incredibly easy for me to stop seeing him, which I will do. I get to the bar and relay my story. We sit and drink. I wait. Finally, at 10:03, he calls. I don't answer. Again, at 10:05. A text at 10:08. And then two more calls. All of which I ignore. At 10:35, a text to say he's sorry. I shrug and keep drinking. I am happier here with friends.
We had just decided to leave when who do I see passing the window in front of me to come into the bar than the best friend of the EX. THE ex. "Fuck." They ask what, and I tell them, as 3 other of his friends come into view. I wait for his face. Thank god it doesn't appear. I turned my face away from the door and put my hand up to my temple, hoping they wouldn't see me as they walked in. One of my friends said he thought I'd been spotted. I was shaken, my stomach in knots. We left without incident and went to a tapas place for some food, then to another bar. Finally, I got into a cab home around 2, glad that I'd spent my night the way I had, reaffirming to myself to do what I want to do next time, not what I feel obligated to do. It's so easy to feel like I "should" do something and ignore my gut when it says, "No, you really don't want to do it. Don't." It's a lesson I learn over and over again.
Friday, November 5, 2010
just me and the bamboo
well, it's just me and the dying bamboo. the most slowly dying bamboo in the history of dying bamboo. honestly, i didn't even know you could kill bamboo. it doesn't even need dirt to grow! just water. WATER. makes me wonder if i kill everything i touch. plants, yes. as evidenced by the sickly yellow bamboo. "I'm sorry," i want to tell it. Okay, do tell it. I feel badly about killing it, and slowly is the worst way to go. But here we are, the only living (ish, i'm not really sure the bamboo counts as living) things in my apartment (unless you count the transient mice, which I don't, but mostly out of sheer denial).
oh, there's a bottle of wine here, too, but it's not alive or anything.
okay, 3 bottles, technically, but i'm only drinking out of one.
right now.
i guess it's been awhile, huh? I hadn't realized I haven't posted since Thanksgiving last year. a LOT has happened since then. I could tell you about all of it, but there is too much. So I will, as the great Inigo Montoya once said, sum up.
I was in love. Seriously in love. Like, really in love. Epically in love.
And then I found out that the man I was in love with was (and I am not exaggerating here) lying about everything. Every. Thing.
This was May.
Since May, I've pretty much been dealing with that. I wouldn't really call it an "adventure" as such, and nobody wants to hear the gory details (likely not even the people who have heard them), but it's been pretty bad.
Which brings me to today, the dominant thought of which was, "If I'm this depressed before winter even starts, how am I going to even make it through until Spring?"
But, you know what? I'll be okay. I always am. And breakups, just like other big life things, are an opportunity to re-examine our lives and to think about what we really want and to change and to grow (blah blah blah). The last time I went through a horrible breakup, I moved to New York, which is quite possibly the best decision I ever made. So, we'll see, right?
But for now, me and the bamboo are going to have a quiet evening in watching "Secretary" and having wine and popcorn for dinner.
oh, there's a bottle of wine here, too, but it's not alive or anything.
okay, 3 bottles, technically, but i'm only drinking out of one.
right now.
i guess it's been awhile, huh? I hadn't realized I haven't posted since Thanksgiving last year. a LOT has happened since then. I could tell you about all of it, but there is too much. So I will, as the great Inigo Montoya once said, sum up.
I was in love. Seriously in love. Like, really in love. Epically in love.
And then I found out that the man I was in love with was (and I am not exaggerating here) lying about everything. Every. Thing.
This was May.
Since May, I've pretty much been dealing with that. I wouldn't really call it an "adventure" as such, and nobody wants to hear the gory details (likely not even the people who have heard them), but it's been pretty bad.
Which brings me to today, the dominant thought of which was, "If I'm this depressed before winter even starts, how am I going to even make it through until Spring?"
But, you know what? I'll be okay. I always am. And breakups, just like other big life things, are an opportunity to re-examine our lives and to think about what we really want and to change and to grow (blah blah blah). The last time I went through a horrible breakup, I moved to New York, which is quite possibly the best decision I ever made. So, we'll see, right?
But for now, me and the bamboo are going to have a quiet evening in watching "Secretary" and having wine and popcorn for dinner.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A Brooklyn Thanksgiving (Part 2)
Thanksgiving dawned sunny and bright on the Gowannus canal, and thus, on my small apartment. We had, to my dissapointment, decided not to go to the parade (a childhood dream of mine) so that we could get the turkey in on time. The good news was that I got to sleep in. At 10, I yawned, stretched, and thought about what a great day it was going to be.
The first thing I saw when I wandered out of my bedroom was a raw turkey, spread eagle on the counter, with J's face disturbing close to the opening between it's legs. "Come here," he said. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head as a wave of nausea rolled over me. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
"Look in there. Do you think I got everything?" I timidly cocked my head to the side to get a better view from where I was in the doorway.
"Uh, I don't know. Did you get the gizzards?" He reached in and pulled out something that I supposed could be called a gizzard.
"Is this it?" I shrugged. He threw it away and thrust his hand in again. "I don't feel anything else. Come look. Do you see anything else in there?" I didn't want to look, and I couldn't imagine that a small opening like that could really conceal anything else, but I did anyway. It was gross. And looked empty. And I wasn't about to put my hand in there.
Side note: Much, much later, when our friend Mike was picking the turkey clean, he pulled a plastic bag out of some dark recess of the bird and said, "Hey! Why didn't you guys throw out the innards?" Seriously, I have NO IDEA where they came from. And I hope no one gets cancer from us cooking plastic inside a turkey for several hours.
I pulled up Grandma's E-mail Instructions on Cooking a Turkey From a Woman Who's Done it 80 Bazillion Times and Made it Look Easy, and read verbatim to J while he pulled stuff out of it, rubbed stuff on it, flipped it around, put other stuff in it, and then tried to tie it all up with yarn because I don't have kitchen string. I am a helpful, thoughtful woman. Based on Grandma's calculations, we had 6 and 1/3 hours to burn once the turkey was in. The hot water in the apartment wasn't working for the fourth time that week, so I called the landlord and we sat around in our PJs drinking coffee and hoping the hot water would be fixed in time for showers before people started arriving.
It wasn't. And the good news is I believe I broke a world record for shortest shower in the history of showering. It was under a minute, people.
The rest of the day is a happy, warm (the apartment heated up to a balmy 85 degrees or so, despite opening the windows), glowy rush, with friends coming and going, good conversation, many bottles of wine, a turkey that just couldn't wait to be done (several hours early--though I refuse to blame this on Grandma's calculations and instead now believe that my oven is schizo), and a mad rush to make all of the side dishes before the turkey got cold. Granted, the turkey was a tad bit dry, and the green beans may have cooked a few minutes too long, and the football games--don't even get me started on how terrible the football games were--but nothing beats a big meal surrounded by people you love. And PIE.
And when the last couple of people left at 1:30 in the morning, and some (but by no means all) of the dishes had been washed, and the leftovers were put away in the fridge, J put on the soundtrack to "Charlie Brown's Christmas" and we sat in quiet happiness, ruminating on what we decided, on all counts, may have just been the best Thanksgiving ever.
I can't wait to do it all again next year.
The first thing I saw when I wandered out of my bedroom was a raw turkey, spread eagle on the counter, with J's face disturbing close to the opening between it's legs. "Come here," he said. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head as a wave of nausea rolled over me. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
"Look in there. Do you think I got everything?" I timidly cocked my head to the side to get a better view from where I was in the doorway.
"Uh, I don't know. Did you get the gizzards?" He reached in and pulled out something that I supposed could be called a gizzard.
"Is this it?" I shrugged. He threw it away and thrust his hand in again. "I don't feel anything else. Come look. Do you see anything else in there?" I didn't want to look, and I couldn't imagine that a small opening like that could really conceal anything else, but I did anyway. It was gross. And looked empty. And I wasn't about to put my hand in there.
Side note: Much, much later, when our friend Mike was picking the turkey clean, he pulled a plastic bag out of some dark recess of the bird and said, "Hey! Why didn't you guys throw out the innards?" Seriously, I have NO IDEA where they came from. And I hope no one gets cancer from us cooking plastic inside a turkey for several hours.
I pulled up Grandma's E-mail Instructions on Cooking a Turkey From a Woman Who's Done it 80 Bazillion Times and Made it Look Easy, and read verbatim to J while he pulled stuff out of it, rubbed stuff on it, flipped it around, put other stuff in it, and then tried to tie it all up with yarn because I don't have kitchen string. I am a helpful, thoughtful woman. Based on Grandma's calculations, we had 6 and 1/3 hours to burn once the turkey was in. The hot water in the apartment wasn't working for the fourth time that week, so I called the landlord and we sat around in our PJs drinking coffee and hoping the hot water would be fixed in time for showers before people started arriving.
It wasn't. And the good news is I believe I broke a world record for shortest shower in the history of showering. It was under a minute, people.
The rest of the day is a happy, warm (the apartment heated up to a balmy 85 degrees or so, despite opening the windows), glowy rush, with friends coming and going, good conversation, many bottles of wine, a turkey that just couldn't wait to be done (several hours early--though I refuse to blame this on Grandma's calculations and instead now believe that my oven is schizo), and a mad rush to make all of the side dishes before the turkey got cold. Granted, the turkey was a tad bit dry, and the green beans may have cooked a few minutes too long, and the football games--don't even get me started on how terrible the football games were--but nothing beats a big meal surrounded by people you love. And PIE.
And when the last couple of people left at 1:30 in the morning, and some (but by no means all) of the dishes had been washed, and the leftovers were put away in the fridge, J put on the soundtrack to "Charlie Brown's Christmas" and we sat in quiet happiness, ruminating on what we decided, on all counts, may have just been the best Thanksgiving ever.
I can't wait to do it all again next year.
A Brooklyn Thanksgiving (Part 1)
It felt like the first in many ways, even though I've been around for 27 of these now...27 Macy's Thanksgiving Day parades, 27 turkeys, 27 burnt fingertips from pulling turkey skin off of a too-hot turkey, complete with pie, football, and family. The number of Thanksgivings I've spent without my immediate family is somewhere around 3. Most often, I am in Pittsburgh. But this year was different. This year was the first Thanksgiving J and I spent together. It was also the first year I hosted.
Five trips to the grocery store, one giant turkey roaster purchase, several meltdowns, and one narrowly avoided fight about the correct way to bind a turkey (trust me, it sounds like more fun than it is) later, and we had one of the best Thanksgivings in recent memory.
It all started several weeks before Thanksgiving, after J and I had decided to have a "quiet Thanksgiving at home" with just the 2 of us. This, of course, turned into "the boys don't have anywhere to go" and I said, "oh, I know a few people who don't have plans either" and before you know it -- POOF! -- I'm hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for 6. No problem. 6 is totally manageable. Until the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when 6 turned into 8, and the day of, when 8 turned into 10.
A quick note on the layout of my apartment: I have a bedroom and a living room. I have no dining room and no dining room table. I have enough seats for 5. My kitchen is on one wall of my living room. I have maybe 2 square feet of counter space, and that's being generous.
We had, by Tuesday, been to the grocery store twice, and I had successfully purchased an enormous turkey roaster that I had no idea where i was going to store after the holiday. I had forgotten about the last minute crush at work the week before any holiday, and had to abandon my plans to clean the apartment and make yet another necessary grocery store run for more forgotten items. Instead, I worked 14 hours, took a car home, and collapsed into bed with the intention of getting to work early on Wednesday to leave by 2 (when the office "closed" but only if you were done with your work) so I could go home and bake pies.
A note about pies: In my family, pies may just be the most integral part of any Thanksgiving celebration. Turkey? In a pinch, we could do without one. Pie? UNTHINKABLE. Also, pie is a bit of an undertaking. You need time, focus, and an empty oven. Therefore, the pies needed to be done on Wednesday, when all of those things, theoretically, would be in ample supply.
J, thankfully, decided not to work on Wednesday. This was the only way we got everything done. I headed off to work an hour early, leaving a "to do" list a mile long in his possession. We were in good spirits. We were in control. We had a plan! Thanksgiving was going to happen after all!
Until I got to work and watched the extra hour I had given myself vanish while trying to turn on my computer. By the time IT had me up and running, I was back where I would have been if I had just come in when I usually do. Luckily, I had budgeted an extra hour into my work time that meant I could leave at 1 if nothing went wrong, and 2 if one hour's worth of things went wrong. I was now on a tight timeline to get done by 2. Nothing else could go wrong.
Meanwhile, J was ticking things off his list with lightening speed. Buy folding chairs: done! Go to the grocery store--again: done! Clean and mop the apartment--done and done!
Needless to say, my day wasn't going nearly so smoothly. The day before Thanksgiving is either incredibly busy or incredibly slow -- apparently, for all of my chatty coworkers, it was incredibly slow. I put in my headphones and put my head down. I was going to finish by 2. Until 11 am, when I got the news that we had done an entire section wrong and it would need to be rewritten. And I wouldn't get it until 5. Fine, the night editor could take care of it. Crisis averted! Until noon, when I remembered it was my day to buy cheese for our department's Wednesday wine and cheese. Fuck. I ran to the Amish Market, grabbed a Brie and and Gruyere, ran back to work, threw it on the community table, and went back to work. 2 o'clock was growing nearer and nearer. The e-mails were coming at lightening speed. People behind me were chatting louder and louder. The work seemed to be going slower and slower. My strength waned. I forgot about food. I just had to get done so I could go home and bake pies.
Finally, at 2:45, I packed up and walked out the door. I headed for Trader Joe's (grocery store run #4), and, laden with two more big bags of groceries, arrived home a little after 4. I promptly broke down and cried. I hated Thanksgiving, I said. I was never going to host again, I said. I haven't eaten since breakfast, I said. J hugged and consoled me, then heated up some soup. I blew my nose, ate my gumbo, and decided to suck it up. I just had to get through making pies.
By 5:30, I was elbows deep in Crisco and flour, and the stress seemed to melt away with every thrust of my pastry cutter. I took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
Except that I didn't have a big enough cutting board to roll out the dough, and then the wax paper that I put down on the coffee table kept sliding around, and flour was getting all over the freshly mopped floor, and the dough wouldn't roll out and I couldn't figure out why.
Cue meltdown number two. J once again hugged and consoled me before softly suggesting that all the dough might need is a little water. Presto, bingo, why didn't I think of that?! And we're back on track once again.
I realize I don't have everything I need for the pumpkin pie, and J puts on his shoes for the 5th (and I'm hoping last) run to the grocery store. We're learning so much for next year! I'm thinking to myself as he shuts the door behind him. 45 minutes later, he walks back in, looking haggard and spent. A run on spices had occurred sometime since he'd been there that morning, and he narrowly avoided a fistfight with a large black woman over the last jar of powdered ginger. Luckily, he is not afraid of anything, not even large black women, and he prevailed. He is, truly, my hero.
Three pies (a very good looking apple and pecan, and a somewhat not-so-appetizing-looking pumpkin) and several cinnamon doo-bops later, I snuggled into that place under his left arm and looked out over the landscape of pies with exhausted happines. We had done it, and with only two meltdowns on my part. We were ready for Thanksgiving. It felt like a giant victory, all around.
Five trips to the grocery store, one giant turkey roaster purchase, several meltdowns, and one narrowly avoided fight about the correct way to bind a turkey (trust me, it sounds like more fun than it is) later, and we had one of the best Thanksgivings in recent memory.
It all started several weeks before Thanksgiving, after J and I had decided to have a "quiet Thanksgiving at home" with just the 2 of us. This, of course, turned into "the boys don't have anywhere to go" and I said, "oh, I know a few people who don't have plans either" and before you know it -- POOF! -- I'm hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for 6. No problem. 6 is totally manageable. Until the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when 6 turned into 8, and the day of, when 8 turned into 10.
A quick note on the layout of my apartment: I have a bedroom and a living room. I have no dining room and no dining room table. I have enough seats for 5. My kitchen is on one wall of my living room. I have maybe 2 square feet of counter space, and that's being generous.
We had, by Tuesday, been to the grocery store twice, and I had successfully purchased an enormous turkey roaster that I had no idea where i was going to store after the holiday. I had forgotten about the last minute crush at work the week before any holiday, and had to abandon my plans to clean the apartment and make yet another necessary grocery store run for more forgotten items. Instead, I worked 14 hours, took a car home, and collapsed into bed with the intention of getting to work early on Wednesday to leave by 2 (when the office "closed" but only if you were done with your work) so I could go home and bake pies.
A note about pies: In my family, pies may just be the most integral part of any Thanksgiving celebration. Turkey? In a pinch, we could do without one. Pie? UNTHINKABLE. Also, pie is a bit of an undertaking. You need time, focus, and an empty oven. Therefore, the pies needed to be done on Wednesday, when all of those things, theoretically, would be in ample supply.
J, thankfully, decided not to work on Wednesday. This was the only way we got everything done. I headed off to work an hour early, leaving a "to do" list a mile long in his possession. We were in good spirits. We were in control. We had a plan! Thanksgiving was going to happen after all!
Until I got to work and watched the extra hour I had given myself vanish while trying to turn on my computer. By the time IT had me up and running, I was back where I would have been if I had just come in when I usually do. Luckily, I had budgeted an extra hour into my work time that meant I could leave at 1 if nothing went wrong, and 2 if one hour's worth of things went wrong. I was now on a tight timeline to get done by 2. Nothing else could go wrong.
Meanwhile, J was ticking things off his list with lightening speed. Buy folding chairs: done! Go to the grocery store--again: done! Clean and mop the apartment--done and done!
Needless to say, my day wasn't going nearly so smoothly. The day before Thanksgiving is either incredibly busy or incredibly slow -- apparently, for all of my chatty coworkers, it was incredibly slow. I put in my headphones and put my head down. I was going to finish by 2. Until 11 am, when I got the news that we had done an entire section wrong and it would need to be rewritten. And I wouldn't get it until 5. Fine, the night editor could take care of it. Crisis averted! Until noon, when I remembered it was my day to buy cheese for our department's Wednesday wine and cheese. Fuck. I ran to the Amish Market, grabbed a Brie and and Gruyere, ran back to work, threw it on the community table, and went back to work. 2 o'clock was growing nearer and nearer. The e-mails were coming at lightening speed. People behind me were chatting louder and louder. The work seemed to be going slower and slower. My strength waned. I forgot about food. I just had to get done so I could go home and bake pies.
Finally, at 2:45, I packed up and walked out the door. I headed for Trader Joe's (grocery store run #4), and, laden with two more big bags of groceries, arrived home a little after 4. I promptly broke down and cried. I hated Thanksgiving, I said. I was never going to host again, I said. I haven't eaten since breakfast, I said. J hugged and consoled me, then heated up some soup. I blew my nose, ate my gumbo, and decided to suck it up. I just had to get through making pies.
By 5:30, I was elbows deep in Crisco and flour, and the stress seemed to melt away with every thrust of my pastry cutter. I took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
Except that I didn't have a big enough cutting board to roll out the dough, and then the wax paper that I put down on the coffee table kept sliding around, and flour was getting all over the freshly mopped floor, and the dough wouldn't roll out and I couldn't figure out why.
Cue meltdown number two. J once again hugged and consoled me before softly suggesting that all the dough might need is a little water. Presto, bingo, why didn't I think of that?! And we're back on track once again.
I realize I don't have everything I need for the pumpkin pie, and J puts on his shoes for the 5th (and I'm hoping last) run to the grocery store. We're learning so much for next year! I'm thinking to myself as he shuts the door behind him. 45 minutes later, he walks back in, looking haggard and spent. A run on spices had occurred sometime since he'd been there that morning, and he narrowly avoided a fistfight with a large black woman over the last jar of powdered ginger. Luckily, he is not afraid of anything, not even large black women, and he prevailed. He is, truly, my hero.
Three pies (a very good looking apple and pecan, and a somewhat not-so-appetizing-looking pumpkin) and several cinnamon doo-bops later, I snuggled into that place under his left arm and looked out over the landscape of pies with exhausted happines. We had done it, and with only two meltdowns on my part. We were ready for Thanksgiving. It felt like a giant victory, all around.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
When all else fails...
April?! My last post was in April? Sweet Lord, I had no idea it had been that long.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
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