Landings

I've come up with a new metaphor for life. No, I don't mean new to the world, because I'm sure somebody else has thought of this before, but new to me. Possibly new to a few acquaintances, definitely not new to my parents, who seem to have grown exponentially wiser every year since I hit eighteen.

On to my metaphor: Life is like the stairs in a skyscraper. Every time you hit a landing, there are more freaking stairs. And because it's life, the elevator is broken, and there's no escalator, and teleportation has still not been invented so that's right out.

So you start on the first floor (basement more accurately, but I'm not going to elaborate on the birth comparison there), and then you start walking up. It gets harder and harder, because let's face it, nobody is in good enough shape to climb 128 flights of stairs and not get a little winded. When you hit the late teens/early twenties, it gets really hard, because your body hasn't numbed itself to the labor yet, and the landings are both a blessing and a curse.

The landings are a pause, a place you can stop if you need to catch your breath, and curse the invention of stairs. They are not a conclusion, or a stop, or what you've been looking for and reaching toward, but you can stop there if you want. They're temptation.

I've hit my landing. Really the first landing I've had in about four years, and I've had my pause. I've rested, thought about just hanging out in the stairwell and maybe chain-smoking the time away until somebody installs a convenient elevator, and now I'm climbing again.

Mostly because I'm kinda claustrophobic and not nearly patient enough to wait for an elevator.

And partly because the climb is growing on me.

A Letter to The Writer

Dear Me,

I want you to remember this part of your life. Remember that you're working a shit job that will get you absolutely nowhere. Remember that everyone you know has graduated from college and you're still barely a sophomore. Remember the constant rejection letters from agents, the fact that you still live with your parents like some horrendous cliché.

Remember your fear of affection and how you don't think you'll ever find love. Remember how it feels to be an outsider in a town you've lived your whole life. Remember what it's like to feel defeated.

Remember this time, and these moments.

Most importantly, remember that you conquered them. Remember that you showed them all.

I don't know who you are or what you're doing or who you're loving, but I know that you figured it out. I know because you're working so damn hard to figure it out right now.

And right now is fucking hard. It blows like a two-dollar whore. You know, too much teeth. But I know that we've made it. Because you're better than I am. You've come farther.

And you'll only go farther.

Love,

Yourself

Lovely Part II

I hurt you once, lovely,
in a fit of self-destruction that
opened my eyes and closed yours.

Well I'll hurt you twice, kid,
make good and sure you won't
hurt me again. I'll lie to you, kid,
I'll push you away,

and you won't even know it's happening
until I'm two states over with a borrowed
name and a new face.

Well, lovely, I can't say it comes as
a surprise, sitting in my bubble
thinking I've finally found
Someone who understands and who cares.

I knew that was too much to ask, lovely,
and I asked it anyway.
Silly, silly kid, that's me.

Look, kid, now's not really
a good time for this. Neither is
tomorrow or next week, maybe,
probably, never ever.

I told you once, kid, I push people
away, and to me you're already gone,
lost at sea,
pushed pushed to still waters and I'm
Long back on shore.

That's okay, lovely,
I'm pretty good at getting by
on my own.

Spent a lot of time in the middle of
nowhere with only my stupid head to
keep me company. I'm used to it,
lovely. By now, I'm used to losing you.

Listen, kid, the truth is hard to hear
and harder to know, but the truth is this—
I don't wanna be found.

I know, lovely, I know.
Don't you worry your pretty little head
about me, lovely,
I'll keep you lost.
I'll stay lost.

The D Word

And here's a clue, it's not diabetes, dementia, dysentery, or dick. The word: diet. It's a word that women think, and talk about, ad nauseum. And how can they help it? The first caption on every magazine cover is how to lose weight by eating more, the perfect workout to shed pounds faster, how to become an entirely different person in 30 days or less without going all American Psycho on someone. And thus the obsession continues.

This is not to judge, because I am one of those women. Should I not eat carbs after six in the evening? If I'm only supposed to eat egg whites, what the hell am I supposed to do with the yolks? How can I possibly be eating 1300 calories a day, working out an hour a day, and still not be losing weight?

The answer to all these questions—nobody but me cares. Sure, everybody will admire a svelte, newly-slim figure from afar, and the women will off-handedly wonder how I did it (while simultaneously hating me for my success), and the men will stare at my ass. But nobody really wants to know how.

I call this the Miracle of Hotness Phenomenon. Men and women will accept that one woman is hotter than another, but nobody wants to know how it's done. It's just like every other cool thing: CGI in a movie, a magician's secret panel, Kim Kardashian's boob job—thinking about the process is not at all fun.

The problem with the Miracle of Hotness: how on earth is a woman supposed to get real advice from a real person when nobody wants to talk about how to get skinnier? Talk to your man about it, he gets bored and annoyed. Talk to your mom about it, she'll tell you you're beautiful. Talk to your best friend about it, and suddenly it's a competition. And constantly trying to one-up your best friend doesn't help your Miracle at all.

So while the Miracle of Hotness remains quietly under wraps, except in obnoxious magazine covers (New Secret to Losing Weight: Eating Nothing But Strawberries and Pepper! And See Insider Special: Hate Your Body? Take a Pill That Rewrites Your DNA!), the rest of us have to struggle without assistance or support, hoping that with enough determination and hours of spinning classes that we will look like Halle Berry.

Of course, there's always the American Psycho option.

Excerpt

Below is a little excerpt from my novel On Cypress Lane. 


Chapter 1

Dishes

The house is empty, and the sink is full of dishes. For a moment that is all Celia knows, in her first few minutes of waking, pulling on a robe, stumbling down the stairs. Then her shoulders return to their ever-tense position, nearer to her ears than they should be, and she moves into the kitchen she knows better than herself. She pours a cup of coffee and sits down on a stool. Celia's never liked chairs with backs, she considers them a crutch. Support nobody really needs. And a waste of wood—she believes in the environment.

She looks at the full sink. Sighs. It's always like this. But no matter how many times she comes down the same stairs to the same sink full of a rotating cycle of the same dishes, she forgets every night until the morning. She forgets that this is her life.

It is somewhat removed from her last life, by distance, time, happiness. She was never happy in her old life, being that person, with that man, and those responsibilities. Here, she is content. She has shed the skin that was once hers and become something new. With this chrome sink, and these ceramic dishes.

Lloyd is at work, as he most often is. Her son is at school, learning how to be a teenager. Nowadays he comes home smelling like cigarette smoke, and thinks she doesn't notice. Of course she notices. Celia still smokes, more than a pack a day, she just hides it better. She shakes her head over her coffee. Silly Gabriel. Deception should really be left to the experts.

Shakespeare never did get the idea of deception right—it is rarely a tangled web. Even the earliest deceptions can be clever, as long as they're based in truth. Celia is one of the experts. Most of her sentences are half-truths, and she has always prided herself on them. Her use of words in a world full of inarticulate, overly-educated people.

Celia rises quickly to her feet, her coffee only half-consumed. The phone is old, rotary dial and in a color of off-white that will never be egg-shell. It weighs heavy in her slim hand. Artist hands. Another feature of herself Celia treasures.

Margot picks up on the second ring. Their phone isn't old, their phone is attached to a Comcast hub, with caller id and call waiting and conference calls—Margot calls them conveniences. But Celia knows that she will never feel the weight of the rotary phone in her artist hands, and that makes her happy.

"Celia, this is early for you!" Margot has a night club singer's voice. Over the years it has been tamed and winnowed down to something more refined, but Celia hears only the crooner that never was. "Something wrong?"

Celia will never be comfortable with the term "wrong". It could be applied to so many parts of her life. She doesn't want her life to be anything but right.

"No, everything's fine. It's good. Would you like to do anything today?"

Margot's frown is audible. "I thought you had an exhibit coming up."

Celia shrugs. Her shoulders don't relax.  "I do. It's in a few weeks though, the rest can wait."

"How are they coming?"

"They're coming along." Celia thinks of the clay in her work-room, the wires that almost make shapes on their wooden stands. She has time. "I don't feel like being cooped up today."

The rotary phone is heavier. She didn't think the conversation would take this long. The sink is still full, and her work room is still full of skeletons.

"Yeah sure, honey. What are you thinking, mini road trip in the Beamer?"

"Yes." It comes out as a sigh of relief. She needs to get out, just for a few hours. Away from her home and her rose-detailed china, away from this phone.

"All right. I'm getting a mani in an hour, but after I'll swing by and grab you. Don't be late. And don't wear those big sunglasses. I know they're Dior, but they were so not worth it."

Celia smiles. She bought those so she could walk her neighborhood unrecognized, without the stigmas of housewife and mother and beautiful woman attached. "I won't."

"Good. Because my baby is all about class. See you in a bit."

"Yes. See you soon." 

Celia hangs up the phone, thinking idly that soon is rarely soon enough. The doctors told her it would be over soon during labor, the lawyer told her it would be over soon during her divorce, Lloyd tells her daily that soon he won't have to work so much. Soon.

The television is tempting right now, the screen reflecting the living room in odd angles and warped sizes. She likes that living room better. But Celia doesn't believe in TV. She believes that it is a crutch, for those not smart enough to deal with the world. And it wastes electricity. She takes rich pride in her own frugality.

Margot arrives as promised, new long nails shining in the sun, tapping on the steering wheel to show off. A childish grin widens her face, and she looks nothing like the cynical bitch the neighbors call her behind her back.

Celia slides into the front seat and flashes a smile. Instead of sunglasses, she wears red lipstick. Margot starts the car, revs the engine a few times solely for the sake of angering the quiet neighborhood, and they speed out of the culdesac. The sink is still full of dishes. But for the first time this morning, Celia doesn't care.

When she was younger, Celia knew that all she needed was art and moonlight. That these two things would make her happy. She grew, and then she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight. That simplicity would make her happy. Later, when she fell in love, and again when she fell out of love, she knew that all she needed was art and wine and moonlight and love. That this would make her life worthwhile. She hasn't added to her list in years. Mostly because now she isn't sure what she needs.

She is reminded of this driving in Margot's car. Sitting in Margot's car. Celia never drives. The wind in her eyes, pulling her hair away from her face as if it would take it from her scalp entirely. This feeling reminds her of her list, and the elusive finish to it. Lloyd and Gabriel make her happy. But they are not on her list. She wonders why.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?" Margot's voice carries even over the wind. 

"Yes. I'm sure. There is nothing wrong." She hopes anyway. Because if something is wrong, it is she. She who has neither her son nor her husband on her list. She who still smokes and hides the butts like a nervous fifteen year old. She doesn't want to be wrong. "There's nothing wrong." Celia doesn't like repetition. But this statement is more for herself than for Margot. Not as a reassurance, but as a puzzle. Nothing is wrong. There is nothing wrong.

Then shouldn't it be right?

Where Does The Money Go?

I complain a lot. About my job, the weather, my weight, the stupidity of man-kind, the fact that I don't own a pair of Gucci boots. But today I am not going to complain. Today, we are going to do a scientific exploration, delving into a question that plagues the minds of men and women alike: where the hell is my money?

This is not to say that everyone wakes up with his or her money mysteriously missing (i.e. stolen by the sock dryer monster), but that there is always less money than in his or her calculations.

My initial explanation is of course that alien leeches whom only feed on paper cloth with serial numbers are to blame, but further research has led me to an astounding discover—we spend it.

It seems impossible, I know, that with all our careful budgeting and well-intentioned frugality that this should happen, but it is indeed true. I've worked it out mathematically. Please see below what I am calling the Money Vacuum Phenomenon.

Monthly Income - (Cable Bill + Electric Bill + Rent + Internet Bill + Grocery Expenditures + Car Insurance + Gas Money + General Hygiene Products) = Leftovers = Savings and Fun Money

(Savings + Fun Money) - Reasonable Fun Expenditures i.e. the occasional cup of coffee or pack of cigarettes = Savings That Really Ought To Be Saved

Savings That Really Ought To Be Saved - (Well maybe I'll order takeout tonight because I really don't feel like cooking + Ooh, pretty scarf, I don't really need it, but I certainly do want it... + Sale on DVDs? Yes! + Meeting friends for drinks + Buying my poor broke friends drinks + Spontaneous infomercial purchases) =

BROKEDOM

I know that the truth is difficult, my friends, but as you can see, the math doesn't lie. Math is one of the many reasons they invented therapy, after all.

A simplified version of this equation is much more disturbing,

(Monthly Income - Existing As A Human And Thus Fallible Being = Brokedom)

which is naturally why I chose to illustrate the whole thing.

Thus we conclude that the money has not been abducted by alien hooligans or malevolent dimension-crossing sock thieves, but by ourselves.

Lovely

I've got you kid, it'll be just fine.
Telling half-truths and promises,
in songs and poems slammed into a microphone
too tall for you to properly speak into.

Don't worry kid, I'll always be there.
Making vows ashing menthol cigarettes
onto rickety coffee shop tables.
Unless, of course.

Unless unless unless.
Unless you fuck up.

I'll always be there kid,
but I might not respect you in the morning.

But it's okay, lovely,
I've never been a fan of mornings anyway,
and if I sleep through the day
I can just pretend that pesky dawn never happened at all.

But listen, kid, I push people away,
I always push people away.
Honesty over beers and half-formed insights
into your head and your reasons.

Well, lovely, I'm always getting pushed away,
so it looks like we're just a match made in heaven.
Yes, darling, two halves of the same whole.

It's not your fault, kid, I just want
to warn you—it's how I am.

Well let me tell you, lovely, I understand.
I won't be mad, won't make you hold my hand
if you'd rather we didn't talk like we mean it.

Because this, this is who I am,
Holding onto sinking ships, watching train wrecks—
Can't look away.

And lovely, I'll hold onto those empty
promises just like I've held onto all the empty
promises before you and yours.

But don't you worry your pretty little head
about me,
lovely,
I'll be just fine.