Test Drive

“Think of it like a test drive. You know, like with a car,” I said to M as we drove to the ferry dock on Nantucket to pick up M’s friends and their 11 month old son. “You can take the little guy for a spin; see what it feels like to be a dad, changing dirty diapers, moving breakables to higher ground and trying to get work done when he wails all day.” Not that I am anywhere ready to be a mom, but neither M nor I have spent any time around babies and I knew living with one for a week would be a reality check for both of us. M seemed unfazed by it all, envisioning fatherhood or a week with a tot no different than his daily life now. A kid, in M’s mind, was just a small person. “I take care of a 200lb dog, per pound this has to be easier. He’s like the size of a poodle. This will be cake.” I laughed to myself, because I knew, he couldn’t be more wrong.

“Holy Shit,” M said as we approached them at the dock. “Look at all that stuff. They're just coming for the week, right?” Standing in front of 6 huge quilted duffle bags, a car seat, a pack-n-play, a stroller and a portable highchair were two very travel-weary adults and one very wide awake baby. “We can’t get all that stuff in the car,” M said, his mind working a mile a minute as he tried to figure a plan to get two tons of shit into a less than one ton Ford Escape. “I bet if we tie the stroller and the baby seat to the roof of the car…” He was about to continue until I shot him the ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY look. “The baby has to ride in the baby seat. Who are you? Britney Fucking Spears? You don’t drive with a kid on your lap and you don’t put it on the roof of the car in a car seat.” As we loaded as much as we could into the car, packing items to the roof, left with no room, M and his friend were forced to walk the mile home pushing an empty baby stroller while I drove Mom, baby and cargo back to the house.

Some people are dog people and some people are baby people. I will push over baby strollers on the street, charging through a parking lot of Bugaboos on an Upper East Side corner to make my way over to the adorable GoldenDoodle puppy gnawing on his own leash, his floppy ears and oversized paws like a beacon of cuteness pulling me. Ignoring infants and toddlers, I make a mad dash for a four-legged fur ball, allowing the puppy to lick my face covering me in a shower of slobber. I am 100% a dog person. But I have many friends who are the opposite; using Purell to clean off dog spit as if it carried the Plague but having no problem with Cheerio-puke and baby dribble. I wish I was the opposite.

Back at the house, M and I watched the baby, our mouths agape, we stared at him in awe and fear. At 11 months, he wasn’t yet walking but the crawling thing he had down pat, flying around on all fours – under the table, across the floor, collapsing in giggles only to push himself back to inchworm position and slither across the floor trying to put everything in his mouth along the way. He didn’t stop, having boundless energy he was always moving. “I’m getting tired just watching him,” I whispered to M. Could I do this, I wondered, doubting my resolve and will-power. I didn’t sleep well that night, consumed with fear that I wouldn’t be any good at it and my kid would grow up to be a serial killer and then go on Oprah via satellite from his cell in an orange jumpsuit and blame it all on his bad parenting.

“You have to change a poopy diaper,” I told M. “Before we even talk about having a kid, you have to prove to me that you can do that.” Sure enough, a few minutes later as if on cue, the baby gave M the opportunity to prove himself. M and I stood in the corner of the room, far enough away that we could watch not yet ready for a solo mission. Out of spouting distance should he decide to go when the diaper was off, we peered over timidly. “That happens a lot,” his mother warned as she slid a diaper under him and covered him with a towel while he wiggled around like a Tickle-Me Elmo doll. We both grimaced at the sight of the soiled diaper as she pulled it off and folded it up into a tiny square. “Ugh,” M remarked, turning his head from the scene. I swallowed hard, fought back the fear, and choked a little. Was there something wrong with me that motherhood felt like a size 7 shoe that just didn’t quite fit?

As the week continued my days as a baby neophyte began to wane, but my fear continued to grow. Just moving around was difficult, you are dependent on a kind soul to hold the door open for the baby carriage or help you lift it up over the curb. Just going to lunch required military precision in timing and preparation as I watched the Mom load up her bag with an arsenal of diapers, Huggie wipes, bottles, sippy cups, pacifiers, toys and something which looked like baby biscotti. “He should fall asleep by the time we sit down for lunch,” she said as she moved the stroller off the sidewalk and let another caravan of mommies with wagons pass. “Heed to the larger vessel? Same rules as the sea?”

At night, when the baby had fallen asleep and the house was still and quiet, I would turn to M, “What if I am terrible at this? I don’t have patience. I’m selfish and to be a great mom you need to be selfless. I am so scared.” I thought it would be a trying week for M, an eye-opening experience for the both of us, but instead, it proved to be far more terrifying for me than for him. “You just have to have the resolve to do the best that you can. You just rise to the challenge. When it’s your own, you just get it done.”

As they packed to leave, I played with the baby. His small hands, curled around my fingers as he took little steps, unsure on his feet he wobbled. I pulled my finger from his grasp so that he was standing, alone, without assistance. “Holy crap! Come see. You guys, he is standing on his own.” Everyone gathered around as Riley teetered back and forth before collapsing onto the ground as we erupted into applause for his first “standing” ovation. Proud of himself, he laughed and smiled knowingly and rolled around on the floor.

And for the first time all week, utter fear of the unknown turned to a touch of simple joy.

Present State of Mind

Someone once told me, “Stay in the present” as I drifted away in thought, thinking about something far off – a place long ago or something yet to come. It is the best piece of advice I have ever heard, better than most idioms or adages which people throw around with ease when they cannot find the right words to say.

I have hard time focusing on where I am; something is always pulling. Nostalgia yanks at my heart and memories wash over me carrying me backwards as I drift off on a wave of warm memories. Fear of the unknown, of a future I cannot imagine sweep me over, carrying me forward as I barrel towards a place in my head which I can only see in outline. There are no colors, no clear picture of where it is that I am going, of what the future will look like, but there is a bold uncertainty, underlined. Black and white.

It is something which I hate about myself, this inability to stay in the moment and live in the here and now. I know I am losing out on the moments as they occur, always reaching backwards from the distance of a future vantage point trying to recreate them, remember them and regurgitate them like cud to chew on once more. It is easier, I guess, to live for the moment. Carpe Diem. Seizing hold of where you are, appreciating that time rather worrying about the future or longing for the past. I know this, yet it is so hard to do like getting up at 6 am and working out, or not eating the last piece of cake. You know what is healthy, but you cannot convey it with authority and conviction to yourself.

A long time ago, I grappled with this same issue. I missed the past more than feared the future. The past is tangible, the future is nebulous. It is easier to reach back than stretch forward, you have something to touch. Now, it is an unrelenting fear of what is to come. Real Adulthood, children - things which were once concepts or stories from friends’ playbooks of life morph into shadowy outlines of reality that no longer exist on the horizon of life, but steps ahead.

Alissa gave me a present years ago. I doubt she would even remember it now; it wasn’t for a birthday or any event where you give gifts. She just came to my apartment one night, when I needed a friend. With a bottle of wine and a cheesy feel-good 80s movie, she handed me an unwrapped present in a Border’s bag. Inside the brown paper bag was the book “The Precious Present”.

I think it’s time that I go back and re-read it. Now, it is a gift I should give myself.

Steamed

“I’m OK. At Bryant Park, M texted me on Wednesday at 6 pm. I had just come back from a run and was about to get into the shower to get ready to meet M for dinner. Great, I thought, M is going out for drinks. He is totally blowing off dinner with me. I fumed as I stripped off my wet socks and tossed them into the hamper, envisioning M and his work cohorts downing Kettle One and soda in Bryant Park, completely forgetting about our plans. I re-read the text and something sounded off. “I’m OK,” why would he text me that? I fired back a short text: “Huh?” Seconds later, my Blackberry buzzed again: “Turn on the news.”

I flipped the TV on and went from station to station, between local news and national news: the immigration debate, missing mom in Illinois, outraged fans of Michael Vick. There was nothing on the news which explained why M would be sitting at Bryant Park Grill. Grabbing my phone, I called him. The first attempt didn’t go through; a message that all circuits were busy signaled that something was wrong. I started to feel panicked, a sinking feeling in my stomach, reminiscent of September 11th. I called again…and again, finally getting through on my fourth or fifth attempt. “What’s going on?” I asked him, my voice an octave higher and shaky as I sat fidgeting with the top to my seltzer water. “I have the news on but they aren’t saying anything.”

The usually unflappable M sounded scared. “I don’t know. There was a huge explosion outside my office. I was sitting in the conference room on a call and then all of a sudden the building shook and there were plumes of smoke outside the window. We all just ran. Everyone ran. It’s chaos out here.”

Still the newscasters were prattling on about some inane subject. Who gives a fuck if a swarm of butterflies indigenous to one part of some rainforest may become extinct in 400 years if we don’t become less oil dependent when there are bombs going off in the middle of New York City! “They’re still not saying anything. Was it bomb? What’s going on?” M wasn’t in New York on 9/11 – barely out of college, he has no recollection of the sheer panic and confusion that was New York that morning. It is something which I will never forget.

Finally a live shot of 42nd Street popped on the screen. Fox Channel 5 was the first to get their crews to the scene. They were reporting that the explosion was a steam pipe underground on 41st and Lexington, directly outside M’s office. I relayed the information to M who sounded a bit relieved to hear that it wasn’t terrorism. Out of breath M stopped running west, “A steam pipe, that’s it? It sounded like a volcano erupted. I’m completely covered in mud. It’s pandemonium here. People are crying, you don’t understand what’s going on over here.” Unlike me, M is not one to exaggerate or create colorful drama so I knew by the tone of his voice and his description that it was bad, even if the news stations at that point were seemingly downplaying the incident. A blare of sirens shrieked outside my window, barreling down Second Avenue as emergency vehicles raced towards the scene. “Just come home,” I told him. I needed M to be home, with me and Chief, with the chaos of the city outside and far away – on the TV screen as if it were happening in some other city and not blocks away.

Twenty minutes later, M got home. Sure enough, his blue button-down shirt was speckled with mud and his chinos were also covered with a brown filth. I got a wet towel and wiped the splatter of mud off his face, grateful that he was OK except for a little dirt. “Are they saying anything else?” he asked as he changed into mesh shorts and a T-shirt. He sat down on the bed and watched the news reports. All I could think was how happy that I was that he was home, that he was alright and how guilty I felt being angry at him for a minute when I thought he was going out for drinks. I wrapped my arms around his neck and refused to let go. “You’re choking me,” he coughed trying to remove my stranglehold of raw emotion and fear. I refused to let go.

And since M’s office is in the frozen zone and closed until Bloomberg says otherwise, I can continue to hold him in a vice-like grip indefinitely.

Birds and the Bees

Most New Yorkers remember the controversy surrounding the unofficial Upper East Side resident, Pale Male. The red-tailed hawk, Pale Male, took up residence at 927 Fifth Avenue in 1993 before he was evicted by the co-op board that had its nest removed amidst major protests by environmentalist and ornithology lovers. And like many feisty New Yorkers, Pale Male refused to resign himself the board’s decision and rebuilt his nest in 2005 where he and current love-interest, Lola have nested and raised their 7 chicks.

Over the weekend, Pale Male came under attack once more when an angry construction worker, Antonio Torrado began to pelt the fowl with rocks. Witnesses claim the vicious attack was unprovoked and that Pale Male was merely enjoying the views from his perch at 1040 Fifth Avenue on a high floor’s ledge when he came under fire. It is believed that Pale Male took a direct hit from at least on of the projectiles heaved at him, but sources are unable to confirm his whereabouts and the extent of his injuries.

The Upper East Side is becoming a foul place for fowl.

Writer's Block

Last evening, I attended a book signing for my talented, beautiful and incredibly amazing friend, Brett Ellen Block at the Upper East Side Border’s on 57th and Park Avenue. The talented Ms. Block’s latest critically acclaimed book, “The Lightning Rule” is a murder mystery, high-paced thriller set against Newark’s 1967 race riots – the 40th anniversary, ironically, was yesterday. Touted as “One of the most stylistically perfect books you will ever read” by LA Weekly, “The Lightning Rule” is an engaging work that draws the reader into a magnificently crafted world of historical facts and brilliant fiction, seamlessly weaving a story ripe with rich characters and an intricate twisting plot.


Book Description: A flawless historical backdrop underpins Block's second novel (after 2004's The Grave of God's Daughter) about a rookie Newark, N.J., homicide cop, Martin Emmett. Mistrusted by his superiors and unable to solve the first murder case assigned to him, Emmett has been shunted off to man the records room. On the eve of the 1960s riots, Emmett is handed a second case—a make or break opportunity. Emmett quickly gets an inkling that the murder of a healthy young black man, mutilated and dumped in a sewage tunnel, may not be an isolated killing, but hard evidence is lacking. Corrupt cops, mobsters, racists (white and black) and the riots complicate his investigation. Block's serial killer, whose exploits are described episodically, stretches credulity, as do some of her minor characters, particularly an engaging juvenile suspect who at times acts too adult for his years. Still, Block dramatically depicts the attitudes and the economic and social forces that created the tinderbox that was Newark, the match that lit the fuse and the resulting firestorm.

Ms. Block and a variety of other thriller writers drew crowds as long lines snaked around the shelves in the literary fiction area of Borders as people eagerly waited to meet the authors. Sandra and I stood by Brett proudly – realizing as writers, just how monumental her success is.
So if anyone is looking for an amazing beach read or a fabulous juicy summer book, “The Lightning Rule” strikes with electrical precision the same way the crowded erupted in thunderous applause.

To read more about "Lightning Rule" on Amazon.com, please click here.

Triple-O-7

Some people are numbers people – that is to say, they revolve their lives knowingly or unknowingly around numbers. Novice Numerologists. My father needs to set the alarm clock so that the last number of time is either a 4 or 6. Heaven forbid he would set it for 7:15. When asked why he felt the need to ensure that they alarm was set this way, he answered, “I don’t know. I just like 4 and 6.” My father is a man who is neither superstitious nor a believer in the paranormal. He would walk under a ladder, cross the path of a black cat, but he needs to wake up on the fours or the sixes.

I always had to wear the number 8 in athletics growing up. Who knows how it started? Maybe my favorite baseball player as a kid wore that number, I don’t know. But when uniforms were handed out, I rushed to the front of the line to guarantee my pick. One time in junior high softball, I lost the number 8 jersey to an 8th grader who had seniority over my lowly 7th grade status. Begrudgingly, I settled for number 18 and wished that halfway through the season she would be kicked off the team for being caught in the boys’ locker room. She wasn’t – and I was stuck with the number18 which lead to a dismal season for me and a poor overall record for the team. Or so I believed.

I play the 8 in craps. I never bet ‘don’t come’ on the 8. And I have won – I have won big with number 8, carrying my bundle of chips to the cage to cash in my fortuitous winnings.

I fancy the number 11 too. I like the way it looks. It’s sleek and simple – and a numerical palindrome. I always wanted to get double ones somewhere in my phone number. I still have yet to manage that feat, each time sweet talking the Verizon sales rep who selects the new number for my phone? “Got anything in there with double ones? Huh? I bet if you look at little further down, drill down more on that computer screen of yours – you might be able to find me something like that?” Inevitably, the Verizon representative stares at me with a blank look of confusion and produces a number with no rhythmic sequence.

So it is no surprise that when 07/07/07 rolled around, and happened to fall on a Saturday to boot – brides rushed to book that lucky triple-O-7 as their wedding date. 38,000 brides and grooms, to be precise, tied the knot last Saturday. From Desperate Housewife star, Eva Longoria and Tony Parker to celebrity chef Wolgang Puck, catering halls and hotels raked in the dollars based on superstition. Las Vegas reported higher than ever numbers of brides and grooms flocking to Elvis-inspired wedding chapels, even having to turn away some due to over-crowding. Everyone got in on the sham, from Wal-Mart that ran a promotion where 7 couples were treated to an all-expense paid wedding in the Lawn and Garden area of a local Wal-Mart superstore to the Ritz Carlton on CPS which offered a $77,777 luxury wedding package. “Sevens are just lucky,” said one blushing bride. “I am betting on us and our future together by getting married on this date.”

Last year, when the unfortunate date of triple sixes approached (06/06/06), it was reported that many pregnant women opted for C-sections on the 5th as opposed to potentially delivering on the day of the devil. I am sure a lot of women who were as unlucky as to go into labor on that fateful date, sat crossed legged, doing Lamaze and praying to delay the delivery until midnight, despite the agonizing pain. No one wants to be the mother of Rosemary’s baby.

When I got engaged, I did think about getting married on that date – for about a nanosecond. I think luck is not something which is dished out in numerical values. I don’t think if Jupiter is aligned with Mars, peace shall rule the planets and love will rule the stars. Dates are dates. True love is not something which can be attained by betting on a day or a number - it is far more complex than that. Numbers are merely values we mortals assign to things, they have no inherent meaning.

And by the way, if sevens are so lucky – try telling that to a craps player who has their money riding on eight.

Do you believe in lucky numbers? Tell me.

Fast Forward

“Where should we meet?” I screamed into my cell phone to M who could barely hear me against the backdrop of a summer happy hour. He was at the SoHo Grand after work grabbing drinks with some friends and I was enjoying a casual dinner with Keri Cherry on the Upper East Side. “Let’s meet at Neary’s,” M suggested. Neary’s, an upscale Irish pub on 57th Street is M’s ‘go-to’ venue of choice when he can’t come up with something else. “Ok, see you there in 30 minutes.”

M likes convenience. New York is designed for people like M who prefer to live life within a 4-block radius of their home without sacrificing on quality or comfort. A dry cleaner, super market, fro-yo and countless amazing restaurants including Rosa Mexicana, Fucha, and Nish – allow M to live out his dream of never needing to take a cab for what he wants. But what our area lacks is what I had grown accustomed to when living in Murray Hill; good old fashioned neighborhood pubs. Joshua Tree and 515 were my second home in my early-twenties. Teeming with post-collegiate kids, my friends and I would flock there for after-work drinks or to watch a Michigan football game there on Saturday morning. It was close to home and felt like home.

“Those bars are too young,” M said sounding more a like a grandpa than a 30 year old. “I work very hard during the day. I want to go to a place where I can get away. Where I can always get a seat at the bar, without the loud music and without being elbow to elbow with some little punk pushing his way to the bar to get some shit two-for-one happy hour special. I want an adult bar.” In his head, I knew M was envisioning something like Cheers, where a cast of characters lingered all day awaiting M’s arrival and erupting in a loud cheer - “Norm”.

Instead, Keri and I walked into a senior citizens bingo parlor. Neary’s was packed – packed with a walker/cane crowd of octogenarians. No exaggeration, the tables were filled with silver-haired women and men in tweed jackets with suede arm patches with canes resting against the side of the table. “Is this the right place,” Keri questioned, assuming rightfully so, that no sane man in his thirties could possibly hang out here. “Yep. M likes it here.” And with that, M and Keri’s husband, Ron strolled in through the doors and bellied-up to the bar. The two of them have hung out at Neary’s countless times before, making it their neighborhood male-bonding watering hole.

“Hey, how are you?” M said to the bartender who recognized him.

“The usual?” the bartender asked as he filled a glass with ice, his white shirt and black tie a throwback to a bygone era. Also a senior citizen, the bartender has regaled M and Ron with stories from Neary’s past. “Forty years ago,” he would start telling his tales of Neary’s early years. M and Ron would listen intently, clinging to every word of the history lesson they received.

We closed the place. At midnight, we were the last people left in the bar. M and Ron swapped stories with the bartender while Keri and I marveled at the scene. “Somehow I feel like I missed a stage,” I said to Keri. “I went directly from the fraternity scene of Murray Hill straight to the retirement home. It’s sweet, but I think we need to find a place more our age. She nodded in agreement, “At least we know where the cool place to go is 40 years from now.”

Happily Ever After

I got up very early this morning.

Last night, M and I were watching the news before bed and a promo for The Today Show came across the screen. This morning, Matt Lauer was going to disclose what makes a happy marriage. Recent research and new studies by the Pew Research Center were going to be unveiled and I, as a woman on the verge of marriage, wanted to see the findings.

A survey of 2,020 random respondents from all over the country produced a startling conclusion: Sharing household chores makes for happily ever after. In the past, having and raising children ranked high among factors which adults deemed pivotal in a successful marriage, now it has sunk to a lowly position of eighth on a list a of 9 factors. Chore-sharing was cited as very important by 62% of respondent, up from a mere 47% back in 1990. The importance of raising a family plunged from 65% in the 1990 poll to just 41% now.

Though the poll didn’t delve as deep as I had anticipated, it did shine a light on the ever-changing role of marriage and family in America. I decided to do my own poll and quickly fired off an email to some of married friends to see what their thoughts on happily-ever-after would be.

Hi Guys, Quick highly unscientific study - What do you think makes for a happy marriage?

Emails started to roll in very fast, leading me to believe their answers were based on first thoughts rather than pondered precision, which usually means the answer is based on truthful and credible gut instinct.

Communication. Mutual Respect. Loyalty. Sharing each others dreams and passions. Supporting each other towards goals. Sharing love and sharing burdens – equally. Vacations. Independence within the relationship. Saying ‘I love you’ often and with true meaning. Humor. Space. Two bathrooms and different domains. Adequate closet space.

Granted, I didn’t provide a list of pre-determined choices for my friends and most of my married friends have not yet had children. And yes, their answers were generalizations, but nowhere on anyone’s email did I see ‘A happy marriage is based on him sweeping up spilled Corn Flakes.’

Last but not least, I called M. He answered on the first ring, it was a bit unusual that I would call him so early in the morning after only a half-hour of him leaving for the office.

“Is everything Ok?” he asked in a whisper, finding the timing of my call during his known weekly status meeting a bit odd. “Fine,” I said, “but I was wondering, what do you think makes for a good marriage later in life?”

“Huh? Why are you asking me this right now?”

“Because I’m working on a piece about this for the blog and because this is why I got up this morning to watch that thing on the Today Show,” I answered.

Without pause, M responded, “A happy marriage? That’s easy: Peace and quiet, compromise and knowing when to not bother your significant other with unimportant questions. I love you, but I gotta run.”

Link to the Today Show piece, click here.