Hey, so, you know how I’ve been a good little blogger lately and told you funny stories for days and days?
Well, sucks to your assmar, because we’re upping sticks to the Catskills for five days to live life offscreen. No TV, no internet – just a little yellow cottage, a stack of books, a few board games, great food, a clawfoot tub, and our love to keep us warm. Plus a space heater, I hope.
By the time we get back, I’ll be clawing my face off from internet withdrawal, but in the meanwhile, I’ll enjoy unplugging from the grid.
Take care of the city for me, y’all. I’m going upcountry.
Archives for the month of: September, 2007
I don’t know what it says about our marriage that Stuart and I found four bundles on our street of Encyclopedia Brittanica – 32 hardbound volumes – from 1990 and it only took us about three minutes to decide to bring all of them home with us like so many lost but knowledgeable puppies.
I guess it’s just a good thing we found each other. Whether that’s Stuart and I, or Stuart and I and the books, I don’t quite know.
Guess what? I made my peace with the whole concept of egg-based breakfast sandwiches today. I know! Such a feat.
I’ve never really warmed to the idea because I don’t know, those McDonald’s ones really look like yellow Play-Doh that someone has press-ganged into a soggy muffin. Which is what happened.
But this morning I was in Starbucks before work for a cup of coffee (and by cup of coffee I mean tall light mocha frappaccino with a shot of espresso, WHAT) and I was a little hungry but I didn’t want a big sugary donut because big sugary breakfast foods are strictly for weekends when they’re really lunch, followed by snacking on cheese straight from the fridge. So I looked at their breakfast selections and actually had the following conversation with myself:
“What’s the problem? I like eggs when they’re scrambled and those look scrambled. I love sausage and I love cheddar. Plus, me and English muffins go way back, [yes Stuart, I know you just call them MUFFINS there], so what’s not to love?”
It helped that the egg did not look like Play-Doh. And that the muffin had those crumby bits on top that I love.
So I bought it and ate it with only the smallest of trepidations! I am so brave. It was tasty. The end.
Unrelatedly (except maybe for size purposes if I made this cholesterol-cholesterol-cholesterol-on-carb thing a breakfast habit) have you been to Steve & Barry’s to look at SJP’s latest venture? I went in more out of curiosity than any intention to buy anything (famous last words) and dude! I walked out with the cutest pair of dark rinse bootcut jeans that fit like a dream and cost me, no kidding, fifteen bucks.
Plus a yellow teeshirt with three diving hawks on it. Which, when I told Stuart, he misheard as “three diving Hoffs”. Which just made me feel like I didn’t get the right teeshirt.
There! Was that random enough for you?
Oh my god! I’m sick. I think it’s funny that every time I get sick I say, hey, I never get sick! When in fact, I get a killer cold about twice a year and still it never fails to surprise me.
I’m like the goldfish. Hey, what’s over here! Hey! What’s over here!
Stuart came off 11 straight days of working and sat down on Saturday and promptly started snuffling. I gave him a mega-dose of Vitamin C and fed him dinner and tucked him up for a nap and yes! I did stand around stroking my ego and saying don’t worry, I never get sick. Oh, woe is me.
Sunday morning found me with the throatache of doom, which basically sent me into a dithering panic about it being just like last time, which is a memory I could live without: six days of agonizing throat pain where I did nothing but sit in the armchair trying not to swallow and playing bloons. Followed by moving apartments!
Where was I? Oh right, I had this wicked throatache yesterday which meant lots of Throat Coat and I’m not saying that shit doesn’t work, I’m just saying it tastes like ass on a stick. I hate anise!
So I was scared the wicked throatache was a cousin of May’s infection but lo! The stuffiness and the pressure-packed sinuses kicked in around 10PM so it’s officially just a bitchy common cold. I took some Nyquil – does anyone else think that shit no longer actually dries out their sinuses? – and slept until 6am when I dragged Stuart out of bed to stand next to my while I miserably gargled with salt water and did that Vick’s inhale-thing they say not to do on the tin.
Am I all over the place? That’s because of the 2pm Sudafed cold and sinus non-drowsy I took after waking up. I called my awesome new boss/coworker at 9:30 to say I was going to attempt to drag myself in to work because there’s so much to do and she adamantly refused, telling me I sounded terrible and just to stay home and rest. Yay new boss/coworker of awesomeness! Then I went back to sleep and hello, sudafed, you’re making pretty colors fly all over the room.
Currently, I am both tingly and exhausted. I feel like my half my cells have done E and the other half are 95 years old and want their teeth in. Also one nostril has been blocked up all day while the other has ably handled being blown. I referred to this situation last night to Stuart, saying, “this nostril? the Alamo. This one? Surrender monkeys.”
He didn’t get it right away. I don’t really blame him. I’m in crazytown with no translators.
With my parents in Brazil, Stuart and I are going to borrow dad’s truck and head to the Catskills for a week at the end of September. Witness:
Me: Dad, are there any steaks, perchance, in the freezer?
Dad (high pitched voice): OHHHHHHHHH! Ahhhhhhhhh, you want my steaks, huh?
Me: Well, you’ve got a steak guy! I don’t have a steak guy! And there’s a grill at the cottage.
Dad: Hmmmm, ohhh, suuuuuure. Mmm-hmmm, taking my steaks, sheeeesh.
Mom (in the background): There’s feijao in the freezer for you, take that too.
Dad: Mi casa es su casa, huh? Mi comida es su comida?
Mom (in the background again): Tell her she can take whatever the heck she wants from the house!
Dad: Yeah, just leave the house ITSELF there, so when we get home we can find it.
Man, I love my parents.
Things that are awesome, vol 1!
- my job! My new job is the awesome. I get to go in there three days a week and be a superhero at organization and efficiency and then I get two days to, you know, pursue my creative destiny, maaaan. And everyone who works in the studio space is this fantastic cross-section of artist and yogi and therapist and zen buddhist. they’re all really in touch with their mind/body relations and crap. It’s like hanging out with a whole lot of Janice from the Electric Mayhem Band.
- extended birthday goodness. I decided that when another bag like Martha came into my life, I’d be open to it, but for now I didn’t want to desperately buy any old leather handbag that came into town. So Stuart treated me to a decent pair of headphones and a cherry red bag, and now I get to wear all my gorgeous birthday gifts at once – the Skagen watch from my brother, my lovely grey pearl necklace, bag and headphones. Birthdays rock.
- HOUSTON. Whatever you people say, Houston rocks, and since I’d already shown Stuart the sights last time, we got to just spend maximum lady time peppered with some guys named Matt and my family. Maximum lady time (trademark Sarah Brown) was everything I needed it to be; just hours talking with Erin and Raych and hugging them a lot more than strictly necessary. I love me them ladies. When they both left at the same time from Luiz and Ozzie’s house (where we were graciously hosted for all our decadent debauchery) on Sunday night, I stood in the kitchen and cried a little.
- My Texan grandparents. They seriously rock. Poppa passed away two years ago and just getting to see Grandma and get wrapped up in a big Grandma hug was amazing. When we sat down in the living room and I saw Poppa’s picture on the coffee table I realized, wow, I really am only going to see him in pictures and I looked at Stuart and he knew what I was thinking and I had to hold back tears because that’s not a nice way to say hi to your Texan grandma.
We stood in the yard and I asked her where their sundial was, the one she gave Poppa back in the sixties, and she said she hadn’t set it up yet. I said I’d always loved it, and she asked if I remembered what it said. I told her yes, it said “Grow Old Along With Me, the Best Is Yet To Be.” We were quiet and then she said, we did grow old, and it was great. I said I missed Poppa and she said she did, too, and then gave me another hug. HAVE I MADE YOU CRY YET?
- also awesome: the mild weather today. Who loves you, Autumn? I do! Bring it on, cable-knit sweaters. And boots. And cotton scarves. I am ready, oh yes.
NOT awesome:
- my wallet was stolen/lost a few weeks ago and I am waiting on tenterhooks for the RI DMV to send me a letter confirming my driving record so that I can go to the NY DMV and get a new license before our trip to the Catskills on the 25th. I HATE YOU, DMV SYSTEM.
- smelly shoes.
So I’m going to tell you something embarassing. Every year since 2002, I’ve stifled this ludicrous impulse to say “Happy September 11th”, although I never seem to catch myself in time before saying it inside my head. Seconds later I always think, sheesh but that’s inappropriate.
It’s inappropriate but it stems from something true, I think. That’s how we commemorate holidays, you know? Happy Halloween, Happy Fourth of July, Happy President’s Day. I mean, why is it a happy President’s Day? You start to think of the word Happy as a meaningless addition to a named holiday, simply a way to say “It’s ____ Day!” My President’s Days and Memorial Days aren’t any Happier than other days except usually I’m off work, which is swell. So what does this word Happy mean and why does it spring so undesired to my mind in the morning every year, usually when I’m pouring the water into my tea cup and realize the date? It’s definitely not a Happy day in September, but what else do you say? Solemn September 11th, perhaps?
Every year, too, I try and think of the right way to mark the day, since tagging it with Happy isn’t really winning awards. I didn’t lose anyone personally close to me in the attacks. I had some friends who were running away from downtown but they are all physically fine. In 2002, I celebrated (see? can’t say that either), well, commemorated by taking the day off, doing things that brought me pleasure. When I was still working in the city, with a view downtown, I’d always stare out my window at nothingness, at the absence of what I was noting, perhaps even grieving if that’s not too dramatic a word. I’ve never been to the World Trade Center site (I still can’t call it Ground Zero) except to walk past in on my way to that stupidly inconvenient movie theatre in Battery Park.
Most years, I’ve simply let the day pass, noting it in the morning over tea by watching the reading of the names. I like the reading of the names. I think there couldn’t be a more simple, powerful way for us to remember what really happened on September 11th – a lot of people lost their lives. I like hearing the names of strangers because in hearing it, I am honoring them without any unnecessarily dramatic show of grief. There is power in words and names, and there always has been. I switch off the television when people start eulogizing but I always listen to the names.
Odd, too, is that I never cry on September 11th. Odd, I mean, for someone as highly, almost excessively emotional as I am. I mean, I cried in Hocus Pocus, people. I cry at McDonald’s commercials. But somehow I am left sombre and dry-eyed on 9/11.
Perhaps because I am actually pretty contrary by nature and things that are supposed to evoke a very specific type of emotion usually find me resisting. Or perhaps because I feel like there are enough legitimately heartrending tears flowing in the world, even six years later, as terrible fallout from that day, and mine aren’t needed – only my attention and my awareness is required. Or perhaps because I am just not moved to cry, I think every year, and that makes me feel heartless when I know I’m not.
So I don’t cry, I don’t have a tradition – every year I approach it differently but always with the same reservations, the same conflicting reactions. I suspect that other New Yorkers are in this boat with me. I say New Yorkers not because I am a 9/11 snob (and they are out there, people who think you can’t have any grief for the occasion if you were not physically here) but because for us, it wasn’t just the horror of the lives lost but also the horror of the gash left on our landscape. The air pollution and the fear and the jarring change in people’s days and lives were these almost insulting aftereffects of all that grief. Aftereffects which even in the shadow of the larger tragedy had their own consequences.
I think, too, well, I suspect, that a lot of New Yorkers have gleaned this sense of perverse pride after 9/11, pride in the way people bonded and strengthened, pride to see all those stereotypes about our unfeelingness shattered once and for all, pride even to see the rest of the country stop berating us and start rejoicing us. It’s a dirty sort of pride, perhaps we wish we could have had all that camaraderie without the towers’ collapse, but it is nonetheless pride.
So we are left with no Hallmark phrase to recognize the day, the sense that 9/11′s aftershocks have not stopped yet, and this weird perverse pride and possessiveness about our town/our tragedy. Well, I know that’s where I’m left. How do you neatly package bedfellows like grief, resentment, defiance, disconnectedness? They don’t fit together neatly. I feel every year as though I have been given an extra hand and I need to use it for something but I don’t know what. I already had two hands! What am I supposed to do with this other one?
And I think maybe a lot of New Yorkers who are here every year and passing through and by the city’s shows of remembrance, also are a little bewildered at what, if anything, is asked of them. It isn’t often that I feel heartless, or feel as though I am not engaging enough in the world around me. But today always leaves me a little disconnected from everything but the immediacy of my fellow subway travelers, to whom I’d never say Happy September 11th anymore than I’d say Merry Christmas. I see people around me and all I can think is that at some point today we’re all thinking about the same thing. Is that a commemoration?
I guess that’s my answer. I don’t need to say anything or do anything, since everyone knows it’s there. Maybe that’s the only way I’ve found to mark the day – just riding on the subway and knowing it’s there.
[Edited to note, after inspection: this is all bullshit! Well, no, it's not, but apparently, I do commemorate the day some years, unsurprisingly, by writing about it.]
I just got dumped. By a handbag.
Let me tell you a sob story. Months and months ago, a rather fashionable friend of mine showed up at a gathering with this bag. Nothing too fancy, just simple rich dark brown leather with a bright lined interior, but this bag and I, we had plans. We were going to pair ourselves with jeans and a black wool coat and a pashmina. We were going to sling ourselves over velvet blazers and lacy shirts. We were going to be unstoppable.
Stuart, stalwart and keen husband that he is, knew all about the bag and me. Oh yes. He counted his pennies and found the website and steepled his fingers towards my birthday. The bag, she was beautiful. She was made my a small designer down in Georgia and for real Italian leather, she was a steal. Let’s say she was roughly, oh, right at the entrance of three figures and no more.
Did I mention we were in love?
So when you’re in love, it’s okay when you accidentally spoil your own surprise by finding the invoice in a pile of papers on the kitchen table. It’s okay! You’re in love! It’s okay when the object of your affection doesn’t arrive via post in time to get lovingly unwrapped on your birthday! You’re in love! You can wait! You can wait cheerfully, all the while profusely thanking this wonderful husband who so thoughtfully united you with the cow-hide bag of your dreams.
You can see where this is going.
Today, after extensive phonewrangling to some very irresponsible website-running bag salesladies down in Georgia, it was made clear to Stalwart Stuart that they weren’t going to ship him the bag. Ever. That they’d run out before he’d even placed his order and oh, they’ve discontinued MY DARLING BAG.
But! Yes, Stalwart Stuart is resourceful. He finds out a few stores in New York that carry Irresponsible Bag Maker’s brand and he calls them! All for me! And finds one in SoHo that swears they have the Martha bag (for that was her name) in Paprika (for that was her shiny color).
And when he calls, this wonderful man of mine, he’s delighted to tell me that not only will I have the apex of my desires, it’s probably the last one in Manhattan. I start planning the whole next week’s outfit, as a honeymoon with my bag.
Until he gets there. And what they think is the Martha in Paprika is some other tramp in some other color and my husband, he KNOWS, since he has spent the last two weeks trying to get me the Martha.
O, cruel. Cruel world. It was my birthday gift, my best bag, the bag all others would bow down to. And now, I don’t know where to turn! I am perfect-bagless again. Is there an orphanage where I can adopt a previously-used Martha? Does anyone have another perfect leather handbag source that won’t so colossally let us down?
Can I have a cookie please? *Sniff*.
