Thank GOD I'm aged, over the hill, and WAY past my prime.

Hello? Hi. There’s something I’d like to share. During last night’s impressive and dramatic thunderstorm, with clarity, angst, and surprise, it dawned on me… 

Thank GOD I’m aged, over the hill, and WAY past my prime. 

I grew up in an idealistic bubble, not only foolishly believing hard work and persistence would ensure a modicum of security, but most naively, that there was an innate goodness in man, that it would certainly prevail, and bigotry, cruelty, and fear would shrink and slink back into its abyss. After all, didn’t the Beatles tell us that all we need is love? 

Witnessing an accelerated decay of decency and kindness and the politically sanctioned pillaging of our fragile planet is excruciating. Excrement of the demons of hate and intolerance, freed from Pandora’s upturned box, drops from the sky and soils our lives. 

Thank God I have, what? 15? maybe 20? years left to navigate this dystopian maze? (Unless, God forbid, I live as long as Auntie Antoinette… which would mean… holy crap… another 38 years???)

Thank God I grew up when, despite the ridiculous drill of diving under ones desk as protection from nuclear fallout, I never had to deal with the very real fear of being blown apart with an assault rifle while sitting at that desk, gazing out the window dreaming, and tuning out the nuns.

Thank God I lived through my childbearing years with reproductive rights as law.

Thank God Obamacare, with its coverage of preexisting conditions, Medicaid expansion, and all its other protections, was still intact when I needed it, and that I’m not young and therefore vulnerable to its cynical, systemic demolition.  

Thank God I live in New York, a bastion of democratic rights, which I am confident will go down fighting for social safety nets, our freedom, our rights. I plan to stay right here until my ashes are blowing in the wind. Although, I suppose, I could change my mind given a viable, enticing, alternative.

Thank God my accelerated physical deterioration forced me to let go, once and for all, of my decades long food service distraction, and my perceived dependency on it for survival. But its ultimate gift, was how it enabled me to rediscover my identity as an artist, my original passion, the ability to dedicate my time and energy immersed in the joy of creating; and for igniting an urgency to begin again to write.

This is not to say I don't have substantial apprehension regarding the inevitable slashing and burning of Medicare and Social Security. I’ll need to muster my best efforts to avoid ruminating how this could easily drive many of us into poverty, depriving us of adequate medical care, and leading to an inevitable deterioration of the quality of the remaining years of our lives.

My hope, my dream, is to create and nestle into a space of love, solace, and peace despite the whirling maelstrom that surrounds and devours us.

Okay. That’s it. Bye for now.

Good Bye, Anthony Bourdain.

I never met him, but felt I knew him. My first “taste” of the prickly, profane, entertaining, Anthony Bourdain was when I read “Kitchen Confidential” which had me on the floor laughing my ass off. In the book, Bourdain even mentioned the coked up co-owners of the restaurant where, years earlier, sweating, swearing, flinging sauté pans, shouting at the wait staff, I worked as their chef.

Working in NYC kitchens, I could relate to Bourdain on SO many levels. He entered the “biz” as a dishwasher; I, by “helping” friends of a friend in their newly mobbed Columbus Ave café in the late 1970’s.  Like Bourdain, I was attracted to the tightly functioning chaos and the brutal, relentless hours inherent in the business. Copious drugs and alcohol prevailed as the go-to antidote to the craziness. It takes a certain “unconventional” personality to survive such an environment. Burying myself in the business enabled me to avoid the pain, the shame, of a dissolving marriage, of a life defined by ignoring trauma with stiff upper lips and denial. Bourdain’s words were accurate, descriptive and humorously engaging. He opened my eyes, gave me a voice, and made me laugh.

I loved “No Reservations” and “Parts Unknown”. Bourdain whisked me away on whirlwind tours around the world, tasting, experiencing, feeling, places I never would have known. He was an active, vocal advocate, highlighting the essential role of immigrants the historically marginalized and now demonized backbone of restaurant kitchens. He was a leading male voice speaking in support of the “Me Too” movement, especially significant given the abusive, misogynistic nature of the restaurant business. 

My heart breaks for his daughter, his friends, his family, his crew, the hundreds of those whose lives he touched, worked with, and met during his international adventures, and especially, for his friend and frequent collaborator, the chef Eric Ripert, who found him “unresponsive” in his luxury hotel room in France.

To many of us, celebrities such as Anthony Bourdain, Kate Spade, Robin Williams, Marilyn Monroe, Kurt Cobain, Diane Arbus, etc, had what we perceive as “great” lives. They had money and fame, parameters our society mistakenly holds as the gold standard of success, and therefore, supposedly, happiness. Yet, their suffering was profound enough for them to end their own lives. There’s the endless list of celebrities who killed themselves with drug overdoses, and last, but in NO way least, the multitude of “regular” people, the uncelebrated, the unknowns, whose unbearable pain drives them to end their lives. I still grieve the death of a poetess friend who shot herself a few months ago.

Here is the link to Bourdain’s compelling essay, published in 1999 in The New Yorker, “Don’t Eat Before Reading This”, the fuse that ultimately catapulted his uniquely compelling and exciting adventures into our comparatively mundane lives. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1999/04/19/dont-eat-before-reading-this

Mr. Bourdain, you will truly be missed. Good bye, my friend.

INVENTING THE TRUTH

Inventing the Truth

I wrote this essay around 20 years ago...

I'm posting it today in memory of my friend... my inspiration... Jackie Sheeler

My life had disintegrated into a muddy puddle left over from a defrosted winter snowfall.  With little work and no social life I would sit for hours with pen in hand staring at blank sheets of paper. Something had to give. 

After procrastinating for a week or two I finally called The Writer's Voice  and enrolled in a class titled “Inventing the Truth”and listed as a "level two" multi-genre workshop. I was terrified. I had never even taken a "level one" writing class, only a general workshop a year earlier and barely acknowledged myself as a writer. It was in that workshop I met Jackie. She was the only one in the class whose work I loved. Her writing was powerful, fascinating and hilarious. We tried to keep in touch and encourage each other to continue writing.

But instead of writing, I was sitting around with my half-baked ideas surrounding me like fallen loaves taken from the oven too soon while my creative muse nagged, begged and cajoled for a chance for expression. It occurred to me that what I needed to get going was the structure of time and place, assignments, and most significantly to go into debt for the opportunity. Paying for something always made them seem more important.

The first class began the Monday after the blizzard of '93. I decided I wouldn’t go. I’d been buried in my apartment all weekend and was loathe to brave the mountains of icy snow, freezing winds and slippery streets. Nope, wasn’t going anywhere, especially all the way to the upper west side from Park Slope. Besides, I'm no writer anyway, especially not "level two". 

By late afternoon I changed my mind. After all, I charged the class on my well-worn Visa card and, what the hell, I'll go this once then drop out if I don't like it, or if it’s obvious everyone else is much more talented or advanced than I am. Or, maybe, I’d coast by, and no one would notice I am a beginner with limited talent and perseverance.

I threw on some clothes and slid out of my apartment, onto the subway, and into the McBurney YMCA. I was alone, and 45 minutes early for the class. Obviously, I allowed enough time to get there. I sat waiting and ruminating about what a mistake it was to venture out in the bitter cold to a class I was going to drop out of anyway... when who walks in but Jackie... my writing buddy! And in that moment I knew I'd give the class a real try.  

It quickly became apparent the entire class was enormously talented, their stories compelling, moving, poignant, poetic, funny, real. I was surrounded by writers, "real" writers, even some who got paid to write: journalists, comics, writers of magazine articles and medical and dental literature; people working on books and memoirs.  

All these enormously talented people turned out to be as insecure as I was.  Everyone had that annoying voice inside nagging, sneering, whining "Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say!” and “No one wants to listen to that!” and “It's boring, why bother?” and last but not least “I really should be writing, but I’m too busy. Later.” 

I was hooked. And although I still hear that annoying little voice like right now: "This piece stinks!" and "I'm hungry! hmmm...what should I have for dinner?" I'm still writing… thanks to Jackie, the teacher and all the talented people in that class.

OUR "VERY STABLE GENIUS"

I have no doubt our “very stable genius” of a president is demented. Anyone who has dealt with someone with dementia can recognize the symptoms and knows this to be true. The rambling circular utterances, the confounding, incessantly repetitive conversations, the outraged outbursts, the paranoia, the unpredictable social skills. The utter lack of focus. 

Dementia symptoms are often an exaggerated manifestation of who you are and who you have always been. Familiar behavior endures as present reality fades. One grasps and holds tightly from the widening void those memories that define one’s identity. They are a salve, a soothing tonic easing the terror of being erased. 

My dad, a sweet gentle soul, who, as the big A insidiously devoured his neurons, became increasingly sweet and gentle, albeit peppered by “outraged outbursts” when we refused to allow him to drive. The creeping catastrophe of dementia, however, can be particularly alarming when manifested in those with unresolved, unpleasant personalities.

The president, an infamously bombastic, impressively self promoting, publicity seeking con artist, proudly litigious, an unapologetic liar, lecherous, manipulative, demanding, grandiose, intolerant of criticism, empathically deficient, is the quintessential narcissist, possibly of the malignant variety.

I almost (but don’t) feel sorry for the man. He’s surrounded by, propped up, and shamelessly used by an army of power hungry bootlicking brown-nosing obsequious sociopathic sycophants tapping into and manipulating his mental disabilities.

Most disgusting are the whores of the GOP congress who apparently will do “anything” to promote their self aggrandizing agenda. And then, there’s the equally repulsive enabling, greedy, profiteering circle of “friends and family” grabbing and sucking at the teat of wealth, publicity and power. 

It’s all one helluva clusterfuck.

Time to find a venue for my "me too" story to be told...

I am looking for a venue to publish my “me too” story. Given the current explosion of allegations of sexual harassment and assault the time is undeniably now to put my highly personal experience “out there”. 

An ex-food service professional and not (yet) a professional writer, I've never submitted nor published any of my writing aside from the pitiful handful of entries on this, my ever neglected blog. I am not familiar with submission formalities and confess I'll be winging it with any inquiry.The story is titled “The First Time”. It’s approximately 2,900 words, is disturbingly graphic and is accompanied with this photo. 

One day, as public discourse regarding “date rape” began circulating during the 80’s, it hit me like an bolt of lightening that what I had been merely referring to as “the first time I had sex” was in reality a sexual assault. I was 15, and I was raped. I blamed myself, figuring I was high, I had “led him on” then “let him do it”. I shook it off, buried the trauma, and moved on. I never told a soul. Shame, self loathing and self preservation defined me. 

It turns out, one cannot simply “move on”. Burying such a trauma is akin to slapping a bandage on a wound that festers and sickens. The only antidote is to grit one’s teeth, rip the bandage off even if painfully pulling skin and hairs along with it, to exam the wound in the light of day, to air it out, and tend to it with love, acceptance and forgiveness. Otherwise, like one of those stealthy parasites it infects ones brain, making it do its bidding, leading to ones ultimate destruction and demise. 

Although to this day I can still feel exactly what happened that evening, details eluded, paralyzed and prevented me from writing a word. I gave myself permission to fictionalize descriptive details and fill in the blanks. My goal was, and always is, to create compelling reading, to capture the essence, unearth, explore, and “air out” the buried, the deep, the painful. Was there really a lava lamp dimly illuminating the corner? Probably not. What there was was a shattered, wounded, violated girl, numb and alone. 

I wrote the story using a variation of my middle name, and the real name of the person who assaulted me. But then, just a few days ago, I changed his name. Why? Because the story is not about him, it’s not even really about me. It’s about ALL of us. After the millennia of violence, abuse and suppression of (mostly) women by men, it’s time to begin ripping off our bandages and allow ourselves to heal.

MEN WHO GROPE

By the time we are done outing “men who grope”, there will be hardly any men left standing. Since ALL the women I know have been sexually harassed or assaulted at least once in their lifetime, odds are the majority of men have been guilty at some point in their lives of some degree of such behavior. 

I refer to unwelcome, crude, physical and verbal advances, not aggressive, often violent sexual harassment, assault and rape, and the vile, habitually predatory behavior that targets children. Men have felt empowered to grope and kiss (and worse) women for millennia. An overwhelming majority of these astonishingly frequent “gropes” have been shrugged off not only by the perpetrators, but even, surprisingly, by the women themselves. 

Women rarely speak up. They know from extensive experience their claims will automatically and blithely be discounted by variations of the “You liar! It never happened!” or the “You slut! You know you wanted it!” themes. Also, often clouded by underlying guilt there can be vague recollections of flirtatious drunkenness, even kissing. Maybe they DID find him attractive, well, until he started acting like an animal! Then it was ecccchhh… STOP! Get OFF of me! Flirting, even kissing, does NOT automatically mean ”Okay! Go ahead! Go for it!”

The majority of “relatively casual” sexual assaults are generously fueled by alcohol and/or drugs. People drink, flirt, become increasingly inebriated, then men, emboldened by sex and porn saturated societal mores, and believing themselves entitled to immediate gratification, proceed to grab, grope, and kiss women (or other men, for that matter) without consent. Many “nice” men have made unwarranted sexual advances to someone unwilling. The genuinely nice ones know how and when to stop, freely admit their error, and can sincerely apologize.

I believe it’s imperative we differentiate between inherently “good” guys who can readily admit to acting creepily, who are genuinely repentant, and those vile sociopathic creatures who habitually sexually assault others, deny culpability, publicly call out their victims as liars, and attempt to destroy them via vicious trolling and lawsuits.  As essential as it is for women (and victimized men) to speak out, for the multitude of “Me Too” stories to be told and heard, we should also strive to avoid a shit show of unwarranted accusations and overblown reactions.

His Legacy of Love, Compassion, and Kindness

As Alzheimers stealthily ravaged my dad’s mind, Sergeant George Nicholas Mamary’s WW II experiences, permanently etched in his mind, stubbornly resisted erasure. For decades, dad regaled captivated audiences with stories of the war.

Although plagued by my own faulty memory and remembering little detail of his adventures, I still clearly recall how deeply impacted he had been by his experiences. I loved how animated and entertaining he’d become recounting his tales. I truly wish I had the foresight to record him and his stories, the poems he memorized, his jokes, and more then anything, singing all his favorite songs. 

Brave and dedicated, dad joined the Army in 1942 and was sent overseas early 1943. According to a news clipping Lt. George Mamary “was within seven minutes of being first to set foot on the continent of Europe” during the invasion of Italy. He was awarded a Bronze Star in November 1943 for his heroic performance as a forward artillery observer in Italy. Despite his observation post, the frequent target of direct shelling he refused to quit, he maintained his position and directed accurate artillery fire on the enemy.

Dad returned from the war and commenced living life wearing rose colored glasses and an optimistic smile. Kind, funny and forgiving, he never had anything negative to say about anyone, even the manipulative and nefarious. He made everyone laugh. He never looked down on, or judged anyone, and would always greet everyone with genuine pleasantness. It was astonishing. 

It’s not much of a stretch to recognize the ties between dad’s penchant for avoiding conflict at all costs and neatly suppressed and forgotten, yet inevitable, war related post traumatic stress. Conspicuously missing from dad’s dramatic and heroic stores were any account of blood, death, and despair. Mom always said that dad was only truly “alive” during the war. We all knew that the experience clearly defined his life. 

In a society that defines success by one’s financial portfolio my gentle and generous dad was a testament to the fallacy of that definition. He lived a simple life. Nothing made him happier then a hotdog right off the grill. He valued and nurtured customer relations in the family’s sleepwear business his father and uncle built from the ground up. He loved shmoozing and charming his buyers, and struggled with the tedium of paperwork. As his cherished buyers began outsourcing and manufacturing Mamary nightgown knockoffs overseas he watched helplessly as the family business shrunk and ultimately shuttered leaving nothing to show after years of dedication. 

Old fashioned and resistant to change, it simply was not in his DNA to read the tea leaves predicting the enormous, inevitable shift in the global manufacturing paradigm. Still, dad never complained. If he was suffering, or disappointed, you’d never know it. I didn’t understand. When angry, confused and indignant anytime someone had “done me wrong” I could bitch and moan for days. Dad’s advice was always simply to tell me to “smile”.

Unlike others with dementia, as his life shrunk to a wheelchair and ultimately a hospital bed, he remained sweet and uncomplaining. Until the bitter end, he continued to entertain us with his war stories, the inherent, unspoken pain and suffering remaining conspicuously absent. The one difference was that, before the story’s finale, he’d pause, hesitant, and loop back and begin at the beginning, over and over again.

Right before he died, dad’s eyes became very luminous. He lay there, unable to move, eat, speak, his eyes vast pools of light. He was already somewhere beyond. His eyes illuminated the small drab room, they shone, glorious windows into heaven. He was always, clearly, an angel. He left us, not with any monetary inheritance, but with an enormous legacy of love, compassion and kindness, not only to my brothers and myself, but to every living being he encountered.  

MY MOM...came and went ON TIME

MY MOM... CLAIRE MAMARY... came and went ON TIME

October 28, 1927 - October 27 2009

My mom Claire, would have been 90 years old today, left us 8 years ago, and is deeply missed

MY MOM…CLAIRE MAMARY….came and went ON TIME. If the invitation said 1:30…she’d be there precisely 1:30. Or earlier. Even open-ended events like backyard BBQ’s, to her, 1:30 meant 1:30. This often put her at odds with my brother Nick, whose idea of 1:30 usually meant somewhere around 2:45. 

Chances were, when we’d get to Nick’s for the aforementioned BBQ, he and his wife would still be still be navigating the aisles at Costco’s, piling their cart with salmon, ribs, lamb chops, hot dogs, portabellos and mini peppers for the grill; a bin of mesclun, bags of chips, olives, cheese, hummus, and some sort of pie or cake “in case”. At least WE were on time.

No matter what the event, mom would skip breakfast in anticipation of “all the goodies” she planned to indulge in. She’d be first in line at any buffet, which meant she’d be ready for coffee while others were just beginning to tackle their entrées. This often proved embarrassing at restaurants, where, as soon as mom put down her fork, she’d wave her arms while calling “Waiter! WAITER!” or “Miss! MISS! Can I get some coffee?” God forbid it took too long to get their attention.

Mom loved lobster, chocolate and nuts. Mostly, she ate very simply. Food and weight issues were of great continuous concern in our family. Mom’s meals consisted of reasonable portions of healthy food, prepared with minimal fat and salt. Her portion control was on point. One pork chop (never double cut) and one plain baked sweet potato (no butter) for each of us with braised cabbage and homemade applesauce. 

Despite her perpetual disapproval of our weight, leftovers were entirely unacceptable."C’mon, finish this!" she’d command, scraping the tablespoon or so of whatever was left in the bowl; doling it out onto our plates; loathe to save or throw it away. We knew something was terribly wrong when mom stopped eating. Let’s face it, our lives always revolved around when and what are we going to eat? and what’s for dessert? 

Mom hated excess and would huff and puff and mutter under her breath at any event where she thought there was too much food. As the fruit baskets, trays of wraps, crudités, cold cuts, lasagnas, pastries, cookies, and breads kept coming and coming and coming into her home the day of her wake I could hear her loud and clear and quite agitated: “Oh for god’s sake! Too much! TOO MUCH!” That day? I had to agree. Her tiny kitchen overwhelmed, I stuffed anything that couldn’t fit on the buffet on the floor, under the table, in the bedrooms, on the porch.

My mom was unconditionally supportive. No matter what I was doing, what projects I undertook, she would always ask, “What can I do? How can I help?” When I was owner and operator of Novella Café at the Brooklyn Public Library, mom came every morning to make sandwiches, start the coffee, and serve the early birds their buttered bagels, blueberry muffins and cheese danish.

My friends loved my mom. She was the life of every one of my gatherings. Funny, opinionated, savvy and engaging, she was the first to start the liveliest conversations, mostly about politics and women’s issues. She loved “discussing” everything. She was dedicated to opening minds and rebelled against those choosing to remain small and closed. Over the years so many of my cousins told me about a book or art supplies my mom had given them as a gift and how that gift inspired them and even changed their lives.

She particularly enjoyed trying to engage my rightie brother Nick in reasonable political discourse. Depending on how much wine had been consumed, this could easily trigger another one of his Hatin-Hillary rants. In the car on the way to those BBQ’s, my leftie bro Richard and I would BEG mom to resist the temptation to bring up politics. She tried, but eventually mischievous Claire would emerge, and all hell would break loose.

In these harrowing times, there is one thing I know for sure. Mom would be HORRIFIED witnessing the current slow-motion crashing train ride we are all on. As each day slams us with yet another relentless round of mind-boggling atrocities, I can hear the phone ringing in my head, and SO clearly, mom’s voice… “Can you BELIEVE it?” (this? him? them?) She would have been BESIDE herself with outrage, disgust and sorrow.

Ralph Nader was her guy. She voted for him every time he ran for office. Much to her disappointment, he never garnered enough votes to make the difference she hoped for. Her progressive political and social beliefs made her a loner amongst all the conservatives in Bay Ridge where she lived her entire life. She didn’t mind, up to the bitter end, she kept busy picking up the latest choice for her beloved book club at the local library (why bother to buy the book when you can read it for free?) and shopping for and cooking her simple suppers.

The ultimate artist, mom loved philosophy, literature, music, theater, opera, ballet. Her TV was permanently tuned to PBS. She cloistered herself in her studio and painted abstract canvases for hours every day. She was famous for the colorful scarves she wore adding flair and pizzazz to her well worn basic attire. An agnostic, mom never presumed she knew the absolute “truth” about anything, especially God and religion, (except, of course, when it came to politics... Republicans were WRONG and that was that.)

I remember in the last hours of her last days here on earth a few of her visitors whispering in her ear, telling her not to be afraid, not to worry, because “Soon you’ll be with Jesus!” I knew what she was thinking… “Really? What about Buddha? or Gandhi? Won’t they be there?” As they also whispered reassurances that my dad would be there waiting, I imagined her laughing… “Really? 53 years I endured his snoring? and THAT’s what I get in my eternal afterlife?”

Like my non-church-going dad, mom was MUCH more Christian then all of those who outwardly proclaim to be. She lived simply and without pretension. She was kind and never lived in judgment of anyone. (Well, I suppose, except for those Republicans)

Mom was the glue that held our family together. She was the main attraction at all my gatherings. Without her, everything drifted apart. I am now an island adrift in an ocean of troubled water. 

Mom. You are greatly missed. I love you. Always.

THE PACK OF CONDOMS

THE PACK OF CONDOMS

I wrote this little story many, MANY moons ago. Instead of endlessly agonizing “why aren’t I writing anymore?” I decided to dig up and revisit my old poems, essays, and stories. I don’t have any exact “dates created” due to a hard drive failure in 2003 and subsequent rescue of my written documents and most of my photographs. Even so, it’s a good guess this story is from the end of summer 1997. THAT many moons ago notwithstanding, the gist of all my stories remain constant themes in my life. So, ADD fueled procrastination be damned, I did a little editing, added the image and decided to post it on this, my endlessly neglected blog.

Wandering the lower level of Duane Reade in search of contact lens solution I found myself in front of an extensive selection of condoms lined up on the counter in the back of the store. I stared at the rack and realized it’s been what… 3 years, 7 months, and ummm, a couple of weeks since I had had sex? (But who’s counting?) Something had to change.

  My search for that “special someone" to “spend the rest of my life with” was going nowhere. Oh, I had been meeting and dating some decent enough guys, but out of them all, the only one I made out with never called again. Obviously, this was going to take a lot more time then I anticipated.  Maybe I should just go out and get myself a good cuddle and a little loving.  

  The condoms stared back, beckoning, suggesting maybe if I had some on hand, a man might actually appear in my bed. I looked around. Only me, and the girl behind the counter in the whole lower level. Perfect opportunity! No witnesses! I bought a pack in honor of my decision. I boasted to my friends about what I did. They cheered me on.

Weeks later, the condoms remained unopened in my sock drawer. Negotiations for my new business ground to a stand still. The long Labor Day weekend loomed ahead. No work, no boyfriend, no plans. I stuff the condoms into my suitcase and jump on a plane from Brooklyn to Ft. Lauderdale. I rent a sea green TransAm, and drive to a friend’s empty condo 5 minutes from the ocean. The days pass. I swim in the warm turquoise waters, soak in the hot sun, and scuba dive. It’s all very sensual. There I was, freshly bronzed, relaxed and even friskier then before. The condoms languished in my suitcase. I realized had to do something.

That night I dragged myself out to the so-called hot spot in town. I’m on a mission. I sit at a table in the middle of the room nursing a cocktail and check out the scene. So far, nothing. The place starts to fill in and the band begins to play. Lots of couples, a few young guys hanging in packs, and one very drunk Russian man leering at a blond in a very short skirt. A skinny little guy wanders over and checks me out. I estimate that I must I weigh a good 30+ pounds more then he does. I try to keep an open mind. I visualize. Nope. Won't work. Not for what I have in mind.

Then suddenly, this tall good looking guy with thick curly hair and a nice build walks in, buys a drink, and strolls over and stands right next to me. Bingo! He I could go for. But now what? I’m new at this!  I force myself to turn and smile at him instead of employing my usual ineffective response of feigned disinterest. He smiles at me. I smile at him. He smiles at me. I smile at him. To my great relief we start to talk.

I invite him to sit at my table. He’s divorced with 2 kids who he loves dearly. He’s a real estate broker by day, and a personal trainer at an exclusive fitness center at night. Ooohh, a nice one! And he's my age! He buys another round of drinks. We talk talk talk. He’s kind and gentle and has a warm smile. I sense a current of electricity. The band is great. Maybe tonight will be the night! 

The conversation proceeds to love, marriage, dating and relationships. He then says that, unlike other guys, he’s never had a one-night stand. Nope, never even wanted one. Still doesn’t. What he wants is to find that "special someone" to spend “the rest of his life” with. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. What I want to say is who cares about the rest on our lives! How ‘bout right now we just go for it!  Hell, I even have protection! Right in my suitcase in my friend’s empty condo!

Instead, I sigh and begin to commiserate about how hard it is to find that “special someone” to “spend the rest of your life with”. In that second I realized that the first time in my life I went out specifically looking for a one-night stand is the first time I meet a guy who says he’s looking specifically for a commitment. AND he lives in Florida. 

So now, here I am, back in Brooklyn, my intact pack of condoms stashed safely in my sock drawer. Waiting.

I'M NOT READY!

"I'm NOT Ready" 

 I wrote this little story many moons ago. Today, instead of agonizing about “why I never write anymore” I decided to revisit some of my old poems, essays, and stories. I don’t have any of their original dates due to a catastrophic drive failure and subsequent rescue of my documents and most of my photos. Since the gist of this story remains an ongoing theme in my life, I simply did a little re-write and decided to post it on this, my endlessly neglected blog.

Most mornings all I want to do is bury myself in my comforter and down pillows and never get up. I always sleep with earplugs and when it is very quiet and I am very still I listen to my heart beat and my blood pulsing in rhythm with my breath.

I remember my mother recounting my birth. How, at the last minute I turned and refused to budge, and how it then took 36 hours of pushing and prodding to get me out. I imagine myself futilely trying to stay in the womb. I still resent having to cope with life. Nowadays, with a cozy bed as surrogate womb, most of the time, I'm still reluctant to budge.   

Other mornings,  I leap up as soon as I awake, energized and ready. It seems unfair that those mornings are so infrequent. They come like big surprises that catapult me joyfully into the world. Mostly, however, I have to push and prod myself to get going. 

        This particular morning I did not want to get up, not yet. I twist and turn then curl up with the sheet pulled over my head to block the morning light. A garbage truck started plaintively whining through my ear plugs. I roll over and turn the digital ocean up loud enough for waves to replace the groans of the truck. I curl back up and sigh….ahhhh… Now I am in a womb by the ocean. 

Naked, I sit on a circular crimson cloth facing the ocean with my legs spread wide open.  Drumming flows faintly over the waves. Astonished, I hold my very pregnant belly … blood is pouring out of me….the drumming gets louder and louder… I am giving birth…. I push and push and my baby's head pops out face up eyes open staring right at me and says "I'm not ready!" and slips back inside.

I wake up startled…there is insistent knocking at my door. Groggy I sit up on a wet crimson circle on my sheets. I'm bleeding. I stagger up and stuff a wad of paper between my legs. 

"Who is it?" I shout at the closed door. 

“Mailman...you got a package!" a voice shouts back. "You gotta sign for it!" 

“Okay... gimme a minute!” I scramble to pull on my robe and open the door. 

"Sorry I woke you..." he said noticing at how disheveled and disoriented I was. He handed me a pen and a clip board. "It's a good thing you're home, or you'd have to go to the post office and pick it up yourself." 

"Yeah, that really IS a good thing...thanks.” I said scribbling my signature and returning the clipboard. He was right, I REALLY didn’t wanna hafta deal with hauling my ass to the post office and waiting on one of their wretched lines. 

I knew exactly what was in the box. I had ordered yet another "self help" book from Barnes and Noble. I have an impressive selection of such books: discovering one’s true life path; finding work you love; creating abundance; attracting your soul mate; overcoming writer's block; stopping compulsive eating; cultivating mindfulness; releasing negativity; paths to enlightenment; healing your life, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. I start all of them and invariably finish only a handful. Laughingly, they line my bookshelves, some sarcastically strewn on my coffee table, and a few furtively hidden in the bathroom.

There's no use going back to bed. I’m already up and it’s getting late. I have money, men and mindfulness to manifest. I better get going. I tear open the box and toss the newest addition onto my coffee table. I’ll read it later. Or tomorrow. Whenever.