#70 Coming Clean About My Tween.

My daughter turns 12 next month. She is in 6^th grade and now attends a public middle school in NYC. She commutes by a MTA bus 20 blocks there and back and she is making new friends. She is also becoming tweenie which means exactly what you  think: whiny, mood swings, quick ironic wit which surpasses her parents, stalemates, impasses, oily hair and a ton of new skills reflecting independence and maturity which make me incredibly proud and hopeful that she will develop into a pretty substantial adult. This growth is like everyone tells you: the lead foot is on the gas pedal and she is growing fast in every way. Before my eyes she is growing. I think I saw her foot grow tonight. I mean it. It expanded before my eyes.

She makes good choices. She also messes up and doesn’t remember to log in her tuba practice time on the school website which might mess up her GPA (I know, really?!) but she’s on top of it.

For now.

She is having a sleepover with a new friend, right now. A new girl who is kind of great and different from her other friends. She has a different look and style. Without going into details, which might inaccurately describe her, just imagine that she probably has to deal with some interesting stuff as she gets older because she stands out a bit. I like that they click and are becoming good friends. They are tweenie friends, hovering around a YouTube music video and I can't decide how to gauge the fuzzy inappropriate line. Do I monitor (helicopter)? Intrude? Joke with an awkward embarrassing twerking move which they will ignore? I am not cool. Before you yawn and turn the page because you’ve heard all this predictable whiny parent “oh, what happened to my little baby?” junk, I think I might have something to say here. (OMG they are singing in the other room with the door closed. SO cute. Sorry.)

Tonight, when my kid hit a wall of exhaustion she picked up a book and sat quietly on her zebra print bean bag chair. Her new friend looked a little lost and I didn’t want to get involved, because tweenies hate that. But like kids do, they figured it out. Both sat separately and read and before I knew it they were imitating the “new” Miley Cyrus getting crushed by an imaginary wrecking ball which I thought was clever. And disturbing.

When I hear parents weep into their oatmeal facing empty nest syndrome I roll my eyes because I judge them for not having enough of a life of their own. I know that’s brutal and terrible, but what is the big deal? Obviously, I’m the fucked up one in the room, but that’s another story.  So, my point is this: I’ve started becoming a bit tweenie myself. I’m going though my own little oily hair, cursing in front of elderly people, watching YouTube videos of tattooed nether-droid beings who are producing sounds and movements which make NO sense. I am becoming a cultural wasteland on my iPhone and Twitter feed.  However, in this depressive state I notice that I am drinking a lot less wine during the week.

Are you still with me? There is no tidy ending here. I’m lost. I am crying in my oatmeal and laughing at jokes which pop into my head that amuse no one but me. I’m a total tween so leave me alone.

#69 Ice Fields.

Jim, Lisa, Izz and Suzan were connected. Izz was in art school in Chicago and was dating Suzan. Jim lived in Wisconsin and Lisa was visiting him in Madison. They all met up in Chicago and spent the afternoon at the Art Institute. None of them were even 20 years old, but no one would notice they were teenagers. More aptly they were young adults and they looked like it.

They spent the afternoon taking pictures of each other inside the museum and in front of the ornate sculpted building where snow was gently falling. Jim applied lipstick and eye shadow earlier that day and looked beautiful. He had a thick ponytail and a strong sense of ironic humor. He spent a lot of time testing boundaries and this was something that Lisa, and others, found delightful. When he posed he vamped up his stance and squinted his eyes to look extra sexy.

He was one of a kind.

After lunch, Izz and Suzan moved to British antiquities for a while. When they returned Suzan looked a little sad and was slightly more withdrawn. Izz was a little manic, but that was not unusual and also part of his charm.

The four of them got into Jim’s van and head to his mother’s farm in rural Wisconsin. The girls were in the back seat, the boys in front. Lisa and Suzan had never met before today. Suzan was also an art student and a few years older. She was beautiful, like an Egyptian goddess with kohl eye liner and blond bangs. She smoked and had a very soft voice. Lisa was quiet and happy to be with these people on an adventure. The drive from Chicago took them to rural areas that could only be described as snow quilts held together by rows of pine trees, dried up corn stalks and long winding asphalt road.

When they arrived, at what was essentially Jim’s childhood home, his mother met them in the driveway and had a big pot of coffee waiting. They sat around and drank beer and ate a giant omelet Jim’s mom made while she smoked cigarettes and talked. She was also beautiful.

Sleeping arrangements were informal and they all piled into an adjacent barn that was winterized. Scattered all over the floor were watercolors from Jims’ mom’s art collection. Everyone knew they were valuable and would end up in a museum one day, which they did.

They placed sleeping bags side by side. Izz and Suzan were near each other, but not very close. Jim set a fire in an old wood stove and they talked before they drifted off to sleep. It was easy to fall asleep with friends.

The next day they went for a walk. They had down parkas and heavy-duty boots. It was very cold and they set out walking across the tremendous white ice fields, which stretched for miles ahead of them and behind.

They walked together for miles and miles.

#68 Ten Flights Of Stairs In Soho And A Cigarette.

Because this is my blog, I realize I can do whatever I want. Which is what I thought I was already doing- except I will try something different in this post. I wrote two versions of #68. I will post both. The first shows Ann less "soft", or more in her anxious head. The second adds a slight bit of engagement with others which slightly softens Ann. I think both are interesting. This is my way of exploring character development as I work on longer pieces outside of this blog.

First version:

“Shit!” spit Ann.

“Shit shit       shit shitshit.” She simultaneously broke her nail and dropped a quarter inch cigarette ash on her laptop as she was powering off. She blew the dust off the keyboard with the smoke from her cigarette.  Leaning back in her chair she lit a new one with her old one, inhaling deeply as if she just got to the pine woods and finally had something filling her lungs beside disgusting city exhaust.  She inspected her broken nail and shook her head as she bit off the remaining nail, which was right below the nail bed.  It stung like crazy as she calculated the number of days or hours it would take for it to grow back and not hurt anymore.

She inhaled again and snuffed most of the cigarette into the ashtray and opened the window to let the smoky air out.  It was freezing outside and she left the window open a crack before she turned off the lights.  She left the pack of cigarettes on her desk.

A text came through on her phone from her sitter.

“When r u getting home?”

 “ASAP Thnx!”

Her winter coat didn’t zip anymore.

She stood by the elevator and poked the Down button. It lit but she didn’t wait because unless it was right there it would take forever. Her building had not invested in a new passenger elevator since 1890. Well, there were some interior renovations, but the motor was always stalling and she could always hear the piercing alarm from her office. She liked taking the stairs and being 8 months pregnant didn’t stop her. She took them from day one of her first pregnancy and this one wouldn’t be any different. Before she started down she looked over the old iron banister trying to take in how high up she was. She was tempted to drop a nickel but didn’t want to risk hurting anyone. 

Down the steps.

One flight at a time.

The landing on 8 always had a neat pile of cigarette stubs sitting in ash on the bottom step which pissed her off because it was a fire hazard to smoke in the stairwell.  During her breaks, as she head down the steps, she often passed a 20-something girl on the phone crying over a breakup and sucking on a cigarette between sobs. Ann felt bad for a while and then thought it wasn’t the most discreet place to settle private business.

Before cell phones, when Ann was young, she had done this too so she could relate to the urgency. Poor kid.

But after 9:00 PM the stairs were empty and the security doors leading to each floor were locked and the lights were out. When she got to the third floor she always heard a piano and voice coach going strong and thought, maybe one day I’ll take voice lessons. She laughed out loud.

“Goodnight Carl! Get home safe!”

“Nite Miss!”

She'd known Carl for 14 years and he still didn't remember her name.  Standing outside the lobby were two huddling guys blocking the entrance. Only wearing t-shirts and smoking cigarettes they stomped their feet to keep warm. The cigarettes weren’t warming them up but they needed to smoke and she could relate to that.

She head for the subway and got a seat next to a woman who pulled out her crocheting project which was a pink disk, maybe a start on hat.

Ann opened her book and read.

Second Version: 

“Shit!” spit Ann.

“Shit shit       shit shitshit.” She simultaneously broke her nail and dropped a quarter inch cigarette ash on her laptop as she was powering off. She blew the dust off the keyboard with the smoke from her cigarette.  Leaning back in her chair she lit a new one with her old one, inhaling deeply as if she just got to the pine woods and finally had something filling her lungs beside disgusting city exhaust.  She inspected her broken nail and shook her head as she bit off the remaining nail, which was right below the nail bed.  It stung like crazy as she calculated the number of days or hours it would take for it to grow back and not hurt anymore.

She inhaled again and snuffed most of the cigarette into the ashtray and opened the window to let the smoky air out.  It was freezing outside and she left the window open a crack before she turned off the lights.  She left the pack of cigarettes on her desk.

She had her quota for the day.

A text came through on her phone from her sitter.

“When r u getting home?”

 “ASAP Thnx!”
"K had his bath and is in bed. C U soon!"

Her winter coat didn’t zip anymore.

She stood by the elevator and poked the Down button. It lit but she didn’t wait because unless it was right there it would take forever. Her building had not invested in a new passenger elevator since 1890. Well, there were some interior renovations, but the motor was always stalling and she could always hear the piercing alarm from her office. She liked taking the stairs and being 8 months pregnant didn’t stop her. She took them from day one of her first pregnancy and this one wouldn’t be any different. Before she started down she looked over the old iron banister trying to take in how high up she was. She was tempted to drop a nickel but didn’t want to risk hurting anyone. 

Down the steps.

One flight at a time.

The landing on 8 always had a neat pile of cigarette stubs sitting in ash on the bottom step which pissed her off because it was a fire hazard to smoke in the stairwell.  During her breaks, as she head down the steps, she often passed a 20-something girl on the phone crying over a breakup and sucking on a cigarette between sobs. Ann felt bad for a while and then thought it wasn’t the most discreet place to settle private business.

Before cell phones, when Ann was young, she had done this too so she could relate to the urgency. Poor kid.

But after 9:00 PM the stairs were empty and the security doors leading to each floor were locked and the lights were out. When she got to the third floor she always heard a piano and voice coach going strong and thought, maybe one day I’ll take voice lessons. She laughed out loud and the sound bounced off the high walls and she started singing to herself.

“Goodnight Carl! Get home safe!”

“Nite Miss!” he waved.

She’d known Carl for 14 years and she still felt like he didn't  remember her name(of course she knew he did). He was always friendly and never frowned.  Standing outside the lobby were two huddling guys blocking the entrance. Only wearing t-shirts and smoking cigarettes they stomped their feet to keep warm. The cigarettes weren’t warming them up but they needed to smoke and she could relate to that.

She head for the subway and got a seat next to a woman who pulled out her crocheting project which was a pink disk, maybe starting a hat. The pink yard was carefully wound around her finger and crochet needle and she was totally focussed.  Ann liked handmade things. She closed her eyes.

#67 Out To Dinner On A Freezing Friday Night In NYC.

Walking to the restaurant on Second Avenue in the 90’s requires stepping over a fallen traffic light with a wire stretching into the broken sidewalk. It looks dangerous and I make a mental note to dial 311 because someone is going to get electrocuted. Puddles and dog shit are frozen on the sidewalk and the wind is slicing through our coats like a high quality Japanese chef’s knife and we think our eyeballs will freeze in their sockets, fall on the sidewalk and crack into little pieces. This is not good.

So, there are about 18 of us sitting around a table at Mole where we always meet. Mexican food in a dark, crowded and noisy space. Spanish cerviche: shrimp, octopus in a reddish sauce which may involve chorizo and the dish is lined with large tortilla chips. Only four reds on the wine menu so I order an Argentinian Malbec, $36.00. The wine glasses are set on the table.  Like, 4 or maybe 6 glasses and its dark and informal so the waiter just opens a bottle and doesn’t do the usual pour for sniffing and swishing, which suits me just fine. All the glasses are filled and now one bottle is empty. Killed. Bravo! It’s good and fun and I guess someone else orders another bottle of the same and a few other people order sangria and margaritas. The music is loud and the kids are sitting in their own area and the smart phones are out and on fire with activity which the adults ignore and probably appreciate. There is a large order of  spicy guacamole set out on the table and a gigantic basket of tortilla chips with a small and uneventful (and ignored) dish of salsa which one of the kids asks for so she can mix it with her soda, water and hot sauce for a magic potion.

Andrew hobbles in on crutches and thus begins the saga of how he broke his leg (or knee) skiing which is an interminable and humorous story. Currently, he is not in pain and we hear all about how he cursed out his first surgeon so he hopes the second one will work out. His description of falling down the mountain is so ridiculous and includes eye rolling from his wife followed by a trip to the bar for a shot of tequila and a promise that he will never ski again. I guess we will see about that.

It turns out that Stuart and Mike practice (very different) law in the same part of midtown and coincidentally they go to exactly the same Korean barbecue place. Mike describes a dish loaded with tuna and pear. Stuart recommends the bento box which is an exceptionally good deal for $15.00. I am not sure what is in a Korean bento box but I would definitely try it if pear and tuna are involved but not beef. I've never been a kimchi person.

The other end of the table also has a large guacamole appetizer and before I know it the empty app dishes are gone and plates of burritos, soft shell tacos and sizzling platters loaded with whoknowswhat but include swimming pool size sides of rice, beans and sour cream appear.  It’s dark, so its hard to see what everything is but everyone seems happy and digs into their dish as the wine appears for the second or third time into our glasses and waiters are summoned to bring more margaritas and sangrias. (Yuksel's chimichanga still hasn't arrived but with some prodding, the waiter remembers and brings it out.) Time doesn’t matter and the kids have shuffled positions a bit and their entrée dishes have been removed and the green soda bottles have become a great source of musical entertainment.

The adult conversation veers to the topic of live and interactive theatre of the “Eye’s Wide Shut” ilk and without much explicit response I can see everyone slightly leaning it to hear more details and reaching into a pocket to google sed  venue (which is in Chelsea and involves a large freight elevator and masks).  Cost of tickets is shared and a mental note is made: affordable.

The little magician comes back to see if there are any extra sauces available for her concoction. We are fairly certain she starts speaking in a made up Spanish dialect when we refuse to give her the requested sauces. She is incredibly cute and accommodating when we tell her no means no.

“The kids want dessert.”

Fine. Five orders of ginormous slices of chocolate cake and one order of flan which looks like it slid right out of a Campbell’s soup can, doused with syrup are all brought to the table by 4 balancing waiters. All dishes have heaping mounds of whipped (not sour) cream swirling on the plates. Looks safe enough to ski down!

Finally, the pleather bill holder is placed on the adult vicinity of the table and someone generously does the math. Everyone is prepared with plenty of cash so the final count goes fairly smoothly. It is a really nice time and nobody expects that a quick last minute request for a drink would turn into a Beat the Winter Blues dinner party.

Everyone is warm and exits into the cold. Happily heading home.