tween romance & metaphysics....

During our biweekly jaunt to suburban hell (aka Wheaton IL), W. confessed to me that his girlfriend broke up with him today.

"Girlfriend?" I asked, with (I think) a sufficient degree of coolness (while inside I was panicking). "Since when do you have a girlfriend?"

"Since at least September," he said, rather matter-of-factly, and actually in a bit of a snobbish tone. (That whole -- sigh -- "where have YOU been?" thing.)

"Huh," I said, stalling for time, as my mind raced. Should I ask him what it MEANS that he had a girlfriend? Did he kiss her? Did they hold hands? Is this the reason A. has been talking to him about sex?

"Yeah, she decided she wanted to be someone else's girlfriend," he said, before I could think of what to say that wouldn't cause this conversation to plummet rapidly into places undesireable. And of course, my heart sank. My boy got dumped for someone else!

"Who is this other guy? Do you want me to use my blue-hair superhero powers to kick his ass?" [It's been a running joke since kindergarten that I'm freaky because I'm like a 2007 -- well, at the time, a 2002 -- version of Wonder Woman, or at least Hawkgirl...]

"Nah, he's kind of a dork. And I'm really not that upset. She wasn't that good of a girlfriend anyway."

Whew. My boy's heart wasn't broken! [Or maybe he's just saying that to calm me down?] In any case, this served as a springboard for a question I've dreaded almost as much as the one in which I have to either come clean or lie about my use of psychedelics in the early 90s: "How old were you when you had YOUR first boyfriend?"

Of course, I said what any self-respecting mother would: "I guess it depends on how you define a boyfriend...." [Do I really want to tell him I made out with a fourth-grader in his treehouse when I was only eight years old? Uh.... no.] And so I told him I went on my first date when I was in sixth grade, reminding him of the story I'd told him a couple of weeks ago about R.S., who punched me EVERY SINGLE DAY of sixth grade, only to ask me to go see White Nights with him at the Brauntex Theatre ($1 matinees!) the day after school let out for the summer. It was the first time I realized that sometimes boys don't know what to do any more than girls do, and at times it sure seems like slugging someone in the upper arm is as good as giving them a kiss (and, at age 11, a lot more acceptable).

W. got bored pretty quickly with my reminiscing about my own tween years (since he met R.S. at my high-school reunion a few years back, I'm guessing he was just as unimpressed with him as I was after seeing how he'd turned into a fat pansy ass Texan good ol' boy). The conversation turned next to the nature of reality, and we had an engaging discussion about "how do we know we're real? what if we're all just someone else's dream, or characters in a video game but we don't know it?"

For that one, I tried explaining to him that it doesn't really matter, in all practicality (would we start acting differently if we knew we were in someone else's dream or a game? no, we wouldn't, because for all practical purposes, our lives wouldn't have changed one bit... and for religious people, things REALLY wouldn't have changed at all, since many of them already believe we're here as some sort of big-ass video game orchestrated by God. but I digress...), but he still just WANTED TO KNOW. And so I called in the big guns by phoning A, who -- as a professional philosopher -- carries the sort of intellectual weight I can't and won't (since I'm "only" the English professor mom who studies silly things like post-modernism and existentialism). So what does A. have me do? He has me slap the kid on the middle of the train (invoking Samuel Johnson's refutation of Berkeley's idealism). And then he gives W. a weekend homework assignment: come up with evidence for both points of view and prepare to discuss it Sunday evening. [To which W. said, "All I did was ask a damned good question." Welcome to my world, son...]

how not to be normal

I'm more productive after noon, most so after midnight. But since everyone else works during the day, and the only social time I get is in the evening, I end up goofing off most of the day, going out at night, staying up until 4am to work, and living on three hours of sleep because I'm teaching in the morning. This can't possibly be healthy, but I don't quite know how else to structure things. Perhaps I need to adopt the sleep schedule of a shift worker: sleep from 4am until 10am (or a bit later), and then awake ready to get things done in my zone of productivity (and stop agreeing to teach these damned morning classes!). I'd still be able to hang out with friends and have an active social life (though their "late night" would be my "mid-afternoon") and get lots more work done. Given that the boys don't live with me, that's doable. But it also makes me feel rather slothful, as if I can't just suck it up and be a normal person and sleep at "regular" times. I think once the semester ends, though, I'm going to give it a try. The worst that can happen is it doesn't work and I go back to all my crazy sleep-schedule permutations.

springtime grief and longing

Me (center) with Gammy and my cousin, David, ca. 1980

"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." - Kahlil Gibran

April is difficult for me, not only because spring tends to inspire a sense of sadness that another year has passed without much significant change (still bad with money, relationships, willpower, and responsibility) but also because it marks the anniversary of my grandmother's death. This year in particular is shaping up to be arduous because it's also the first in a decade - and only the second in my entire life - I've spent living alone.

Before my grandmother died, I'd never lost anyone close to me. The last funeral I'd attended was in the early fall of 1981, when my Nonna died. The only thing I remember (I was eight) was crawling under the coffee table in the funeral home. It was my grandmother (Gammy) who found me there and let me sit in her lap while she told me stories of my Nonna, an intelligent woman born decades too soon to take advantages of second-wave feminism and all its glories.

My grandmother also missed that feminist boon, stuck with a borderline alcoholic Irish husband who left her to wash windows while she was eight months pregnant and he was off at the tavern. In the last decade or so of her life, I think she caught a glimpse of how things could have been different, as I cajoled my grandfather into buying her anniversary presents and celebrating Mother's Day despite his idea that "she wasn't MY mother." But mostly Gammy taught me a great deal: the importance of fidelity despite hardship, what it feels like to be loved (and love!) unconditionally, the value of connection in a cold-hearted world, how to get an infant to sleep with Italian lullabies and a gentle stroke on the brow.

When Gammy died, I thought the pain would never end. An atheist for as long as I could remember, I began to wish I could see past the logic, suspend disbelief, and just believe in God once and for all. Finding out I was pregnant the day of her funeral (a pregnancy later lost in ways most complicated), I was convinced her soul would be reborn within me. Grieving for her was the hardest and most exhausting thing I'd ever experienced, and it nearly killed me. But then one day I realized birds were chirping as they were flying south for the winter, and that the changing leaves were beautiful as they fell beneath my feet and crunched under the weight of my body. An entire summer had bloomed into fall as I cried and howled at the moon (and swore at the injustice), but I survived. I felt like my old self again - lighter and a bit more sad, a little less full, but once again sure that I could make my way through the world alone.

Mostly, that confidence has remained. But at certain moments - the birth of my second son, the prolonged collapse of an important relationship, college graduation after 13 years of struggle - I feel so very weak. It isn't exactly that I'm still grieving, but rather that the sadness comes upon me as a gulf of emptiness and all I can focus on and think about as that wave washes upon my shore is, "I really miss her, and I want her back NOW." This is made more difficult by the fact that I don't have any contact with my family, and there isn't anyone I can call upon to talk about the years I had with her. There is no one alive with whom I can share the things I remember viscerally: how she smelled after a bath, the folded tissues and Wrigley's spearmint gum perpetually stowed in her purse, the way she hugged me so I could feel her soft cheek pressed up against my own, her uncanny ability to call me to check in just when I needed it the most.

All these feelings - and more - crop up in springtime. It doesn't help that the anniversary of her death this year falls the week after Easter, which means I'm awash in mythology about life and death. I don't want to hear about rebirth and salvation and hope and renewal. I want her back, even though I know I've lost any chance for that to happen and all I have now are those heartfelt memories, the stories I hold in my heart, the love and happiness she shared with me so selflessly for all those years.

In the end, though, Gibran has it right. It isn't so much that I want her here or now, or that my grief is predicated on her absence. In a sense, it IS exactly that, but looking deeper I'm simply overwhelmed with the memories of how much love and happiness I felt in her presence. As I sit perched on the precipice of my own future happiness (with much love in my heart), I can't help but think that my constant grief and sadness these days are signs of growth, renewal, and rebirth (yes, all those things I can't stand hearing about). It's time for me to let go and ride the waves, to see where life takes me without dwelling on the past or thinking too much about my destination. In the meantime, I'm stocking up on Kleenex.

movie marathon

The past few days have been filled with movie watching as I'm frantically trying to catch up on work; sickness and out-of-town trips and just plain havin' fun have got me a bit off track. But since I haven't fully given up on the idea of being a Responsible Adult, the salt mines are a-callin'. And so I've had a chance to watch a mix of old and new-to-me movies:

1. Clerks (1994). Yes, until Thursday night I hadn't ever seen this movie. I know this is hard to believe, since I'm generally a rather cool and culturally aware individual, but I've just never had the chance. I can't say I thought it was hilarious, but I think I would've thought it was so if I'd seen it 13 years ago. So I'm retroactively amused.
2. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005). Critics didn't much like this flick, but I enjoyed it the first time I saw it and even more when I saw it this morning. The dialogue and pacing are just my speed, and where else can you get Val Kilmer giving grammar lessons to a fingerless Robert Downey Jr.?
3. Striptease (1996). This is a movie that never should have been made. I didn't see it until today, but I couldn't get past the hokeyness of it all.
4. Forces of Nature (1999). This remains one of my favorite Sandra Bullock movies, if only because her character in it - Sarah Lewis - is about 85% me. The best line: "The things you find so interesting and exotic about me now are the things you'll hate me for in the end." I never did like the ending, since I thought Ben Affleck should've run off with Sandra Bullock instead of returning to Maura Tierney. But I can understand that "deep and true connection" trumps "excitement in the moment" for most people, even though I tend to completely disagree.
5. Just Friends (2005). Bleh. It is what it is: a passable specimen of the genre. Glad I didn't pay money to see this one.
   
6. I Heart Huckabees (2004). What can I say? As an existentialist, this is my Ben Hur, my Ten Commandments, my Jesus of Nazareth. It is always a wonderful experience to watch this film, to see the interplay of philosophy and dialogue presented in such an entertaining manner.
7. Wedding Crashers (2005). Until this evening, the one and only time I'd seen this movie was about five hours after I first learned I had a brain tumor. I'd been walking around Lincoln Square - A. set me loose, sensing that I needed time to process the information - and I happened upon the Davis Theatre. This was the only comedy, and it was a little awkward for me; on a Friday night, everyone else in the theatre was part of a couple, and under normal circumstances I would have felt pretty weird. But that evening was anything but normal, and the movie did what it was supposed to do: make me laugh and take my mind off reality for a couple of hours.

Tomorrow will surely bring more movies...

ruminations on city life

A tells me I need to be more understanding of people who visit big cities from places like Montana and Nebraska and Wyoming and realize that perhaps they're justified in gawking at skyscrapers and gasping at traffic jams. However, it's much more fun to roll my eyes and be thankful I had the good sense to not become one of those people. I think this goes along with my relative inability to readily* bring forth my inner child, instead preferring to conjure up my inner jaded 80-year-old woman with a sandpaper voice who hacks up phlegm because she's dying from emphysema.

It's not exactly that I'm snide when it comes to people who display a keen sense of childlike wonder; it's that I don't understand why anyone would choose innocence (no matter how charming) over a quick city wit, the ability to navigate public transportation, and an innate sense of knowing that it's a really, really bad idea to just stop in the middle of an intersection to figure out which way is north. Just cross the street, damnit!, and figure it all out later. [And yes, this can surely be added to the long list of statements which rather succinctly summarize my perspective on life.]

*Consider this infinitive purposely split. It's an archaic rule based on the idiotic notion that English has to act like Latin (a language in which it's impossible to split an infinitive because it's only ONE WORD...), which is clearly fucked up.

goodbye, new york

Every time I leave New York City I feel as though I'm standing on the precipice of something spectacular, but it's just out of my reach and I can't even articulate what, exactly, is so great about it. In practice, this means I burst into tears in a stall in the women's room at LaGuardia and want to chain myself to the toilet until someone tells me I don't have to go home.

It's not that I hate Chicago; indeed, I rather love it. My children are there, and it's comfortable beyond belief. But the same things that make it home are the ones that make me wish for something more, and it doesn't get much "more" than New York City. This afternoon was perfect - sleeping in a bit, then watching a basketball game with Dave at La Negrita, followed by a walk in Central Park (and sitting on a park bench in a rather windy spot) and a stroll back to Harlem, where we had a delicious Ethiopian meal at Zoma. We talked for so long I missed the M60 bus and took a cab to LaGuardia, and the taxi driver was so funny he had me in stitches nearly the entire way.

And of course this followed a most fabulous evening the night before: a vegan dinner at Caravan of Dreams with Dave and his friends (in town from North Carolina), getting drenched in the rain walking the length of the East Village looking for a non-loud non-crowded non-sports bar, happening upon cool music in the subway, running through the rain on the Upper West Side to find the perfect bar, talking through the night in the haze of beer and cigarettes.

Living in New York is hardly practical right now; beyond issues with the cost of living, my children are in Chicago and I can't imagine either leaving them behind with their fathers or bringing them with me to this place. Chicago is the perfect city to raise kids, I think: big enough to expose the boys to the wonders of urban life (ethnic food, public transportation, diverse neighborhoods and people, dynamic social movements) while living in a safe, affordable area. But every time I visit New York, I imagine what it will be like when the children are grown and I can begin to live without considering their needs first, and I'm beginning to envision all of that happening in New York City. By then, I'll have lived in Chicago for nearly thirty years, which surely will be enough for me to move on. In the meantime, visiting every chance I can get is a close second.

friday night & part of my saturday

OK, so if traveling has taught me ANYTHING it's that things rarely go as I plan. And when you're talking about traveling in a city filled with unpredictability, that's doubly true. I spent way too much time chatting with Denis on Gmail when I was supposed to be getting ready... and so my dinner was kettle corn from Dale & Thomas. Walking there, I had the (mis)fortune of walking in front of tourists, and was able to overhear some gems:

"Wow! It's a church. I didn't know they had churches in New York."

"I want to go see something famous." (said in the MIDDLE OF TIMES SQUARE)

"Do they really make the popcorn while you watch? I've never heard of such a thing!"

After fighting through crowds of stupid people/tourists gawking - golly gee! - at all those bright lights, I finally made it to the Paris Theatre, procured my paper ticket through the little ticket box thingie, and then proceeded to walk nearly to 7th Avenue (the theatre is at 58th Street and 6th Avenue) to wait in line. Show was supposed to start at 9:55, but they delayed it until 10:15 and kept us out IN THE FRICKIN' COLD until nearly 10pm. By the time I got inside, my toes were frozen (note to self: no stilettos when standing outside in 17-degree temps for 45 minutes is a distinct possibility).

The movie was out about 12:30am & I didn't feel like taking the subway at that hour, so I hailed a cab back to the hotel, where I met up with BrooklynBoy. He's looking well, and he's very busy with his indie movie job and recording a new album with his band. We stayed up pretty darn late talking and I didn't get that much sleep, so I got somewhat of a late start. Around noon, I made my way to the subway to get to the Upper West Side, where I'm staying at the Jazz on the Park hostel, but the C train wasn't running and I had to wait practically forever for the A train.

I'd been thinking about catching a film at the IFC, but I think I may just explore Central Park. The weather is much nicer today than yesterday, and it's a perfect day for strolling and jotting in my Moleskine notebook. Eating would probably be good, too: in the past 24 hours, my caloric intake has consisted of my Dale & Thomas kettle corn, a pineapple muffin, a cup of coffee, and about a gallon of water. I'm not that hungry, but if I don't eat soon I think I'll start to feel it. So, then: eating, exploring, hanging out with Deadhead(s), and enjoying the city. While part of me feels somewhat lame not doing more touristy things, there's something particularly satisfying about just being, simply experiencing the city as a passive observer.

a weekend segue

I know, I know. I said I'd be talking about why I'm a vegan. But I'm in New York City for the weekend and don't particularly feel like doing that right now. So prepare for a weekend of blogs about New York.

Landed around 9am today, and after waiting 30 minutes for the Super Shuttle, I was launched into a microcosmic version of Tourist Hell. My shuttle mates were all from, apparently, small towns. After the third time I heard, "Wow, these buildings are so TALL!" and the seventh time I heard, "How does anyone ever get used to living like THIS?" I wanted to vomit. And two women visibly gasped at being in the midst of a morning rush hour traffic jam in midtown Manhattan. Yes, folks, it's the Big City. [If ever I am certain I'm a city gal, it's in moments like these, when I'm embarrassed by others' provincialism.]

My hotel (Super 8 Times Square) is so-so. Nothing like the ones I've stayed in for work in the past, but it's free and the heat works. Did I mention it's cold here? And not cold like windy-in-Chicago cold, but just put-a-chill-in-you cold.

Lunch was from Bread & Olive - a falafel sandwich of which Pita Inn should be jealous along with delicious hummus (plus ginger ale... who stocks ginger ale as a normal soda choice?). The owner complimented me on my hair, leaving me to ponder how rebellious I can possibly be when 80-year-old Israeli men like the way I look. What's next, a 90-year-old bum on the subway telling me he likes my tattoos?

Tonight is still up in the air. I'm busy getting my work done while I wait to hear from BrooklynBoy. Going to see The Namesake at the Paris Theatre at 9:55 while waiting for him, and will likely grab something to eat at Zen Palate or Zenith (and possibly swing by Dale & Thomas popcorn to smuggle some into the theatre).

As for the rest of the weekend: tomorrow it's tooling around the Village for book-and-CD browsing, followed by a night out with a guy I met at the Deadhead caucus in New Mexico, and possibly a film at the IFC Center (this weekend: Rendezvous with French Cinema... ooh lah lah!) somewhere in between. Sunday takes me to Brooklyn for the first time in my life, as I'm brunching at DuMont in Williamsburg with my NYC alter-ego, aka one of the PR reps I work with for GCK. We met when I was here last fall and got along fabulously. If I were a fashionable New Yorker who grew up in Connecticut and majored in art history at Brown, that would be me. As I said, alter-ego.

stranger than fiction

I finally watched Stranger Than Fiction. Odd that I hadn't seen it before now, since I usually pounce on movies filmed in Chicago during opening weekend, especially those filmed in places I know (in this case, at UIC, where I've been wandering around since 1994). In any case, I watched it today and it's official: I think movie companies should put warning labels on films, particularly those that will quite possibly launch their viewers into a state of existential crisis or, should they already BE in an existential criss, despair. Yes, the movie was lovely. But I wasn't exactly in the mood to ponder free will vs. determinism or listen to the pseudo-intellectual Dustin Hoffman character wax poetic about "Little did he know..." [Speaking of which: it's amazing to me the way intellectuals in academia are portrayed in movies. Has anyone who's ever written a movie involving professors actually ever OBSERVED one? I think not.]

I think I should watch the movie again when I'm having a better day. And FYI: other movies that should have been labeled Existentially Dangerous: The Last Kiss (esp. if you're in your 30s and yet to have a midlife crisis), Shopgirl, Broken Flowers, All the Real Girls, and (of course) I Heart Huckabees. I'm sure I can think of others, too, but for now I'm going to take a bubble bath and cry just a wee bit.

mysterious

The Spot was out of Stella again last night. Every time I go there, they run out before I arrive. I'm beginning to think this is some sort of metaphor for my life.

i think you're crazy...

If you haven't heard Shawn Colvin's version of Gnarls Barkley's Crazy on the Prairie Home Companion yet, you should check it out. And if you're a fan of the Grateful Dead, Brokedown Palace was covered by Adrienne Young, Hans Holzen, GK, Prudence Johnson, and Shoes.