Blind 'Friend' Dates

I have had three blind 'friend' dates this past week, having been set up by three separate people from LA with friends, good friends, here. And so, I got dolled up to meet these strangers I've only communicated with via Email and one phone conversation. Women, as everyone knows, dress for other women. We are forever putting together outfits, not to attract the whistles or cat calls from men, but to get affirmations from our own gender. We doll up, try to look cute, all for the satisfaction of knowing our girlfriends appreciated the effort, or better, to receive that compliment and cooing when something you're wearing is envy worthy.

This position of being set up is a new one for me. I've never had trouble meeting people or making friends. If anything, I am a pathological people collector, the crazier the better, as my husband likes to say. And with most of the people I know living in the suburbs or in Brooklyn--I am still artsy enough to have quite a few contacts out that way--I have found my social calendar in the city quiet. This quiet for some would be a source of sadness, but for me it has served as a nice refuge from the social whirl of my life in LA and my summer on the Vineyard. But I knew this solitary life would, should come to an end with each passing week.

It's interesting to experience being on a 'blind date' even if with another woman as a possible friend candidate. The expectations and same anxieties prevail despite this meeting not being determined by the possibility of an attraction. Or isn't it? Aren't female friendships as fraught with the same emotional intensity as relationships between men and women? Aren't these relationships also relationships of the heart. Aren't these relationships as time consuming? And aren't these relationships also devastating when a relationship comes to an end? So, there I was, sitting and waiting at various restaurants or venue across the city, all with the same anxiety of: I hope they like me.

Each meeting brought forth another potential friend: one woman, definitely a 'girlfriend' of the drinks and kvetching variety, another of the proper lunch and tennis date variety, the other the one you make yourself see because they are connected enough to warrant time. These blind dates made me think about how we sound on the phone versus the way we actually look. Since I'd had opportunity to speak to only one blind date, my opinions were formed from email correspondences, not the most reliable way to envision someone. Each of us, all at varying stages of Motherhood, bonded over the fact that we were connected to someone they cared deeply about and for. So, each meeting was a total surprise, in a nice way. All of my 'blind friend dates' were a success. I could see the potential for these relationships to flourish in a way most conducive to the personalities involved.

This new life where relationships, each one a brand new start, is a good place to be for now. I wouldn't wish for anything else. I am happy to correspond with strangers, hoping this new connection may be the relationship that will make me feel tethered to this place. But if that weren't to happen, I always have all the other days when I'm quietly thrilled to be here, to be living my life in this city that I'd always dreamed of living.

Play Dates

Play Dates, the two most dreaded words in my world, is how parents, of all stripes, control who and how their children spend their free time, something not in abundance given how over scheduled all our children are these days. I detest these fabricated social events. This hour or, God forbid, two hours is ripe for so many catastrophes. What happened to the days when our parents, truly brilliant all of them, sat around drinking heavily, parenting in what my girlfriend so aptly described as, "benign neglect?"

Yes, the world has changed. Or has it? I'm sure there were pedophiles lurking around every corner when we were children. I'm certain there were as many car crashes as there are today, but we weren't harnessed to the very death of us. There were, I'm sure, all the dangers that have turned our jobs from 'taking care' of our children: feeding, bathing, nurturing, teaching, to policing our children to the nth degree. Believe me when I say after an hour or two of rambunctious boys screaming and playing Indians and Indians (yes, I know how unPC this is, but am too tired to try and correct them), I wish, yearn, dream for the day when I can banish them out of this apartment to run outside. Yes, child welfare services would certainly come to my door before the kids return. And certainly the other child's parent would never, ever invite us to their home or allow their kid to return for another Play Date. I understand all the social taboos about doing such a thing, but surely I'm allowed a bit of day dreaming, right?

David Sedaris writes about how his mother would do just that--lock out all the kids in the winter and not let them in for hours. Again, 'benign negligence,' didn't do him a great deal of harm, right? Yes, he's spent exhaustive time and money in therapy unpacking the complicated relationship he has with his mother, who comes across in all of his work as: funny, alcoholic, funny, and uncaring.

This word, play date, is now so used or overused, it is a given that if you are a parent, you will find yourself using this word more than you care to remember. This event, the play date, is fraught with social disasters, the most noxious being having to spend that time with a woman you don't like or have anything in common with. It is all annoying, to say the least.

But as a parent, you have no option but to engage in this ridiculous charade. If you don't have a healthy amount of play dates, you, or rather, your child will become that odd child no one ever asks to birthday parties. See, what a trap all of this is for parents? Why none of us haven't rebelled against this inane practice is beyond me. If given my way, I'd banish this social obligation entirely, but then my child would be odder than he will surely become given his parentage.

So, another afternoon was spent with my son's play date, this time with the tomboy in his class. It was just raucous enough to bring on a headache only curable with a bottle of wine.

The New Graying Parent

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how old parents are these days? Particularly in urban centers? As I write this, I am one of those who had their child well past the age of 30, having delayed motherhood, and apparently adulthood, because I thought I could do it all, meaning the self-focused drive for advanced degrees, world travel, and just plain growing up before feeling mature enough to have a child. And whether I was ready or not is not the issue since we now have him, for better or worse--poor little man.

With that said, I am forever seeing couples, who look old enough to be grandparents, pushing strollers of youngsters, obviously their own offspring. One can no longer assume just because a woman or man is gray, wrinkled, and tired that they are the lucky grandparents since such questions could alienate your child rather quickly from the neighborhood. Now, when I say older, I mean older. I now see with greater frequency couples, who look well into their forties, if not pushing early fifties, the proud papa or mama of a toddler. There was a fair amount of this in LA, the city notorious for men having, not just second families, but working on their third when most of the peers, in other parts of the country, are shopping for retirement communities. But in those sitations--most visible at school functions--their counterpart, otherwise known as wife number 3, was usually blond and younger, significantly younger, like thirty-something to their sixty or, god forbid, seventy-something.

But the aged couple as new parents is a trend, occurring with greater frequency in cities like New York. When I tell people how old I am, they immediately suggest with great optimism, I should have another baby. If one were inclined to do such a thing, then I'm sure I could. Older women with the help of invitro, surrogacy, and all the other aids for couples facing infertility, are having children later than was possible, even ten years ago. Usually at this point, I tell them I have no interest in having a child at my age, even if 40 is now considered young enough to still have another baby. See, we can delay motherhood or parenthood with all the technological advances available to us. But in truth, my body is still 40, each year another muscle a bit achier or just cranky. Tiredness is a constant in my day since my body, which knows its age, is 40. I may appear youthful--with the help of die for the gray, diet and exercise, no botox yet--but I am still 40. Before long, I will be writing and b**ching about night sweats brought on by menopause. There is no getting around this reality of my own mortality. So, no, I don't want to forgo the little sleep I'm able to get, even with my insomnia, for a new little addition to our family.

I guess I have strong views on this new trend. My parents, for their generation, were older parents. Therefore, my mom and dad were always a good 10 or so years older than my friends' parents. Back when I was growing up, women were generally having kids at the ripe old age of 20 or 21, so having a mom who had had me at 30 something was exotic, different, strange. I never thought I would be an older mom, although in this new trend of parents being older, I fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. The say the national average for women having children is 25.1, up from what had been the average age in previous generations. I have one friend who'd had her kids, or started having kids in her twenties. She is the only one of my friends, whose kids are now teenagers or tweens, and who herself is in her early forties.

There does seem to be a cultural shift or bias toward women who'd started having kids younger, or rather, closer to the national average in my world. See, if you'd had your kids in your twenties, chances are you don't have a graduate degree since you were a tad too busy being a mom. And forget trying to go to grad school with kids in the house. How anyone would manage such a feat is beyond me. One can also assume you may not have had a full blown career before starting on the "Mommy Track." So, here's the big assumption: you are somehow less accomplished, less educated, and less something since you started a family at an age that is biologically more appropriate, if not culturally appropriate, for those of us so inculcated by the Feminist Movement. And as I watch my friend, the end in sight when her house will be quiet as her kids head off to college in plain view, I have to wonder if she wasn't the smarter one since I'm now just starting Kindergarten, years before I can drop my son off to some remote college far, far away from home.

What does it mean for a generation of kids, whose parents will be in their fifties, if not early sixties by the time they start college? Our mortality keeps getting extended, so that people living into their 100's is happening with greater frequency. And if you'd read the New York Times article from a few months ago, Korean women who live in Fort Lee, New Jersey outlived their counterparts in any other part of the country. Why anyone would want to live that long is beyond comprehension. That 'cutesy' Today show segment where these old, old faces are imposed on the backs of Smuckers jars is my worst nightmare. Needless to say, I will not be moving to Fort Lee, if, God forbid, there is something in that New Jersey drinking water that serves as a strange fountain of youth for Korean women, specifically.

So, I wander around the city, noticing all the old parents, wondering, how do they do it? I'm just tired looking at the ring of fatigue under their eyes. And forget it if they have two. You know my eyes are frozen like that famous Munch painting, "The Scream," with: fear, dread, incredulity, all mixed with a look like, 'you must really be crazy.'

Harlem Renaissance

A friend from the Vineyard, who lives on the Upper West Side, invited me to lunch near her new job in--Harlem. Like everyone else with friends in the city, we'd heard about the gentrification gobbling up huge chunks of Harlem, a part of the city associated with neglect, poverty, and crime, all of this decay tainting the cultural significance when there had been such a thing as the Harlem Renaissance. There were discussions about "Yuppies" buying old brownstones, which they refurbished with all the Yuppie amenities: granite top counters, stainless steel appliances, and grand fireplaces. Since we were many miles away, we believed the 'hype' of this new trend, assuming all of Harlem was getting Yuppified, a Whole Foods surely to arrive soon.

As I got up to street level, leaving behind the subterranean maze of train lines that links all of this city, I felt a sense of, let me be frank, fear taking hold. I was in Kansas no more, as they say. Don't get me wrong, I'm certainly not a woman afraid of black people. I mean, I married one, for God's sake. I am racially sensitive enough to never assume all Black men are criminals, rappers, or thugs. I am the shrill 'wannabe Sister Souljah,' who is rabid when discussing all the stereotypes for Black men and the unjust racial profiling that occurs in our society. I know my husband can forget trying to hail a cab at night, if he's alone--even if most cab drivers are African. As a woman raising a half-Black boy, who will soon enough be a man, I am all too sensitive to the painful experiences of Black men in our culture.

But the crowded streets of 125th street, the lines of African vendors selling patchouli oils and incense, the countless homeless men and women, and the gangs of young black men, their pants on low enough to suggest a lifestyle that we associate with violence and crime, put me just a bit on edge. As I hurried across Martin Luther King Boulevard, I chided myself for being scared. See, my fear so visible on my face and in my pursed, stooped body would surely be interpreted by one of those young black men, who is neither a thug, criminal, or violent. And my fear would be another blemish for him during a long day of such blemishes, the end of the day bringing relief that it was finally over. Knowing all of this, I still couldn't help feeling what I was feeling-- fear. It probably didn't help that my husband and I just recently saw the new Jodie Foster movie where she is brutally attacked in Central Park. From the movie, it was obvious she, the character, lived somewhere in Harlem, each step outside her walk-up apartment's doors a signal of another dangerous encounter. This is a lame excuse, but perhaps an explanation.

I made my way to the Soul Food restaurant, which had glowing reviews for its food and ambiance on the web search I'd done before departing. Relief was what I felt for having made it without anything happening during the five long blocks from subway station to the cool interiors of this restaurant. After my pulled pork sandwich, iced tea and conversation, I accompanied my friend to her new offices, situated next to the Marcus Garvey Park. This park, named after an important figure in Black history, who would be profoundly saddened to see how the green space, named in his honor, could barely disguise the decay all around it. This park, like any other in the city, had the swing set and jungle gym, yet no children were there to enjoy any of the accoutrement to childhood innocence. I could imagine how this park, like so many others in the city, would be overrun with derelicts and drug dealers and users, casting such a sinister pall on something that was created with such good, wholesome intentions.

I wish I were more intrepid, daring enough to set up home in one of the gorgeous old brownstones that proliferates in this part of the city. As I raced past what appeared to be homeless people selling their collected wares from numerous dumpster bins, I knew there was no way I could live here with any measure of confidence. I had to think about why that was, why my 'comfort,' is derived from areas where there's just enough diversity for me to believe it is not what it truly is--an enclave for those privileged enough to believe they are more hip, more daring than they truly are. I can always rationalize and blame my child's safety as the reason for us not moving to such areas like Harlem or Bed Stuy, Brooklyn. And no doubt there is cause for real concern and caution where our child is concerned.

But is Harlem any more dangerous than the Upper West Side near the park? Wasn't it just this past week that a couple was held up at knife point in that glorious park just at dusk? If safety was my main concern, shouldn't a move to the suburbs be the more rational thing to do? Well, no need to be so rash. We all know how much antipathy I have for suburban life, in general. Richard Yates wrote searing and haunting tales of so much woe, lives disintegrating behind the big doors of Colonial homes with manicured lawns, the pristine setting unable to hide the emotional decay inside. The subway ride was just long enough to give me time to ponder the jumble of emotions and thoughts this quick trip way uptown had wrought. Soon enough, I was hitting the street at 14th, heading Eastward and upward to my 'safe' haven of pseudo-suburbia next to the East river.

Cultural Woes

Our son, who is not only biracial, but also bi cultural, is displaying unexpected anxieties about being the mixture that he is: Korean and Black. I can't imagine the confusion for him since there are so few people in the world that are like him. My husband I always knew what a complication our love would result for our child, but yet I don't think either of us truly understood the scope of it all. We are trying to raise him with an understanding and appreciation for both his 'ancestors,' one of his favorite words to place himself into some context that is comprehensible. We are, all of us, always placing ourselves into some context. And how much of that is successful or not is based largely on your family and how it honors those traditions that defines the meaning of culture and family.

For my son, this understanding of his cultural baggage occurs through food and language. He is an adept eater of both Asian and Soul food. His comprehension of being half Korean is largely about food. I'm to blame since my own knowledge of my culture is centered around food more than anything else. The other ways in which he tries to understand himself is through language: English at home, obviously, and Korean, well, Korean at Tae Kwon Do. It is a personal regret I didn't become more proficient in Korean, an oversight or neglect, largely due to my parent's wish to have me be as assimilated as possible. When my son asks whether I can count to a 100 in Korean, I am saddened to admit that I don't know how.

Even in a city as diverse as New York, we, our family, still draw stares of curiosity. We are the 'exotic,' 'interesting,' family pretty much every where we go. This subtle, sometimes not so subtle, objectification is now commonplace for each of us. I try to do what I can to shield my son from it, but I know he is taking it all in unconsciously. My husband and I have our individual experiences of being a specific color or ethnicity. But even these experiences can't compare to what our child is, and will, experience in his lifetime. When I get too overwhelmed by it all, I try to draw comfort from the fact that he is a happy, for now, child with the normal worries of someone his age. And on a good day, my delusion about the simplicity of his worries prevents me from spiraling downward. Of late, there are more good days than bad. I assume as he gets older, it will be harder to ignore the complexities he faces each day as the blended child born out of hope and love.

Everything Delivered, Truly

I went to Trader Joes to stock up on things like pancetta, items I use when I cook that is not readily available in most general markets. There is something enticing and dangerous about Trader Joe's. A walk down any aisle or past a refrigerator convinces you that bag of sweet potato chips is a necessity for a family that never snacks. By the time I'd made it half way around the tiny store--why are they all so small?--I'd amassed enough stuff for me to realize a cab would be needed. I rarely, if ever, leave the house with the granny cart that had somehow made it from Boston to LA and now to New York. Don't ask how a $14.00 cart, which probably cost a small fortune to ship cross country, is still in our possession.

I pushed, or rather, grunted my way to the cashier, who said the most beautiful thing to me. "Would you like this delivered?" Can you imagine my utter delight? Apparently, for a mere $4.50, the store would deliver my numerous bags to my front door. That price is unbeatable, considering a cab ride starts at $2.50, which goes up from mileage and time. And although I don't live far away from TJ's at all, there is no way to tell how long or how much the whole endeavor would cost. Also, there is the small, but no less annoying reality of once you disembark from the cab, you are responsible for getting the many bags up to your apartment door. I have yet to meet a cab driver who is gracious enough to park their cab, illegally most likely, to help a little lady get her numerous shopping bags to her door. If he did offer, I should, most likely, be a bit alarmed that he would have more than chivalry in mind by such an offer. There are few cab drivers who will get out to open their trunk for you, much less take your bags to your door.

So, this whole new option of having some African immigrant delivering my bags was too good to pass up. After this rewarding shopping trip, I was able to walk down the street sans bags to our apartment, knowing my bags were arriving in an hour. We have yet to wake up and call out for breakfast, reserving that luxury for one of those nasty days when stepping outside needs to be seriously weighed. All of this delivery of every day chores has freed up my time in ways I'd dreamed but never considered as attainable. The grocery shopping on line takes a mere half hour, compared to the 2 hour outing the trip to the market would normally take. Also, doing the shopping on line keeps you focused since you rarely wander down a cyber space aisle, dreaming about things you could make with that bottle of orange liqueur. Come to think of it, shopping this way is probably more cost effective since you rarely buy anything you don't have on your list.

We have now been here a month. And during that time, each of us has been figuring out our new city, our new home, our new life. Each day has been a new beginning, more so than just a new day, since everything was so new. When I drop my son off to school, there are more familiar faces, more people to exchange morning niceties with. I imagine within another month, we will have had a few more play dates, a few more exchanges with other families that extends beyond the mere 'hello.'

Everything is a Competition

I've noticed a trend in the world of reality television that proliferates as entertainment. Competition is the driving modus operandi behind each of the shows premise with the exception of "The Nanny," and the strangely tragic, "Wife Swap." It seems our country, our cultural consciousness is all about competing for some prize, whether it be money, weight loss, or a boost to a lagging or nonexistent career. The newest addition, the one that should truly give us pause, is a superficial take on William Golding's allegorical novel, "The Lord of the Flies," usually popular in the middle school years, as a study of how man's need for hierarchy pushes these stranded youths to form tribal communities that reflect the greater world from which they had survived.

In television talk, it's "Survivor" meets a bunch of young kids stranded on some remote location, playing out dangerous games for prizes. Here is the question which kept cropping up as I read bits and pieces about the long lasting damages this experience will, or might, have on the young kids, whose parents had signed up to participate in this ridiculous show. Why? Why sign your kids up for such a contrived, ridiculous experiment, documented on television and watched by people who really don't care whether your kid ends up becoming the Piggy of the show. Not that there will be the sacrificial lamb as Piggy became, but then we're only into the beginning of the season, so who knows what the end of the series will bring.

This cultural emphasis on competing, which we know exists in all forms, subtle and not so subtle, has now became the basis for entertainment. We have gone way beyond the days when Bob Barker's "Price is Right," dominated as the game show to watch. The greatest difference now is that each of the reality shows pretends to not be a game show, which in essence it becomes. Instead of luck and chance determining whether you walk away with that refrigerator is now based on talent, hard work, and gamesmanship--conniving.

Have we become a nation of voyeurs because our world is shrinking in prestige and power? Our dollar is now at all time low on par with the historically laughable Canadian currency. In epochs of civilizations, we are truly on a downward trend, or so each bad news seems to point. How far, and how badly our demise is still to be determined. And more scarier is who or what will retain that dominance since we know that in the natural hierarchy of life, there is always a dominator. Does our general helplessness about our world contribute to our nation's new focus on life where there is always a winner and a loser? Or is it merely the limited, and I mean limited, creativity of an industry, much like our great nation, unable to compete with the advancement of technologies, whose only remaining originality is in shocking us? Or is our national gluttony--although those who live below the poverty level would disagree with my characterization of our country as being plentiful--contributing to our demise, much like the hedonism of the great Roman Empire?

Whatever the reasons, each of us--and I'm not immune or guilt free--contributes to this downward spiral of our cultural lives as we turn in each week to see who will become "America's Top Chef." I glanced at the new show offered with little remorse or apology by CBS called, "Kid Nation." My stomach turned over seeing such young faces talking directly into the camera about how they had out maneuvered or out performed their peers to be that week's winner. It was too disquieting to sit through. And again, the question that begs to be answered is: who are their parents? And more importantly, why?

Oh My, I'm In The Big City!

Yes, I've now been here nearly a month. And every day I find myself marveling at this new reality. Yesterday, I had a big 'aha' moment walking down 14th Street in Union Square. As I did that fast city pace, I glanced at the line of stores selling shoes, clothes, and every conceivable food item. I walked past Whole Foods, that natural food store behemoth, heading toward my destination when I saw the banner for the New School blowing in the wind. It was at this moment, my eyes filled with tears. It was unexpected, yes, but I was choked up with the fact that I was really here, not just visiting, but living here. I never wanted to go to the New School, but it is an institution so intertwined with New York's cultural, left-leaning, intellectual art scene. No, I didn't have that moment when I walked past a store in the East Village that sold CBGB t-shirts, another institution so closely linked to the 80's and the music scene here. But there I was on 14th, my eyes boring into the sidewalk, hoping no one noticed I was openly weeping with happiness and sheer disbelief. It took me more than a moment to get myself together since the emotional build up of what it took us to get here finally exploded in this tear-filled walk down 14th Street.

It had been more than a few years since I'd lived in a city where you walk as much as you do here. My grad school years in Boston was really the last time I'd lived like this, which was over five years ago. I had slipped into that odd way of life in LA where such practical things like shoes and bags become mere aesthetic accessories instead of accessories with a real purpose. Therefore, you spend an inordinate amount of time amassing shoes that are gorgeous, but not good on the feet if you are walking more than the mere few steps from car to destination. Once you become a pedestrian again, you start to reevaluate such necessities, taking stock whether those gorgeous five inch heels will be suitable unless you plan on only hailing cabs. And believe me, I love fashion enough to never forgo such shoes, but in your every day, taking the child to school life, you need shoes that are practical, but no less aesthetically pleasing.

So, I've again become the IPOD (although back in grad school it was just a portable CD player) listening walker, the private soundtrack streaming in my ears as I walk briskly down endless streets, get on and off buses. It is, in my opinion, the way life is supposed to be lived: your own feet directing how and where you are to go. Now, I may not be loving the walking life nearly as much in the bleak days of January when a blizzard is falling. But then, I may still revel in the fact that the world gets so still and quiet as the ground gets blanketed by so much white. Or I may just be pissed off that I'm standing shivering outside a bus stop, hoping to get inside a vehicle, any vehicle, out of the weather.

Cellular Technology--Can't Cover Distance

The distance of 3,000 miles is still distance, even with the 'reach out and touch anyone at any time' technology of the internet and cell phones. This realization gets reinforced each time a call comes from a friend in LA, whose familiar voice makes me almost believe they are as close as they had ever been--20 minutes away since everything is 20 minutes away. But it's in the small inferences to time, to them having their morning coffee as I'm waiting to go have lunch, that I realize the true distance of my former life.

Such a call came yesterday as I stood on 6th Avenue, deciding whether to wait for the bus or simply hail a cab. The voice on the other end, shrank the distance in its familiarity, the ease of each of us slipping into established intimacies as we caught each other up to what is happening in our lives. Yet the call only established this new reality: I am far away. And with all of the technology easing communications between nations, peoples, none have been able to shrink this distance in any meaningful way.

In fact, the technology only seems to tease you into believing distance is something easily overcome. When in fact, this is merely fallacy. Air travel certainly made things faster, compared to the days, sometimes even months, it took people to travel cross country in covered wagons or trains. But air travel has not advanced since it still takes us a good five hours to get from New York to LA. And there is no getting around this fact. See, there is still the sheer distance of this vast country that no technology has been able to shrink down to a size where each of us could zip to see one another for a cup of coffee, allowing enough time to zip us back home.

I became the annoying person, chatting in public space with little regard for others, as I continued my conversation during the bus ride with my friend. I found myself, like most New Yorkers, continuing to talk as I disembarked the bus and started the walk to my destination. It was only as we finally said our 'good-byes' the distance between our lives became irrevocable.

The rest of the day was filled with Mommy duties of picking up my son from school, taking him to Dunkin Donuts for a snack, and then to this Tae Kwon Do class, keeping my melancholy for my friends, all irreplaceable, at bay. This move has been bittersweet from the beginning. There have been moments of sheer exultation mixed with the loss of so many relationships. Each day, I marvel at the turn my life has taken as I walk down a street, taking in the cacophony of the city, feeling much like Marlo Thomas in that indelible clip from her show where she throws her hat into the air. And yet, there are moments when the magnitude of this change settles in around me, taking my breath away.

My family, each of us, is absorbing this change. For our little boy, it can manifest in his inconsolable grief over a pair of red boots he detested and barely wore. With each of his ear piercing shrieks, each of us understands this irrational connection to an accessory is not about the actual item, but rather about the item's link to his former life--a life that had made sense to him. Each day, we wake up in our new house, settling into routines. And soon enough, the newness will feel less so, but routine. With this subtle change, our former lives will fade just a bit further into the distance, the calls from friends more nostalgic than heart tugging when they come.

Fallen Leaves

I noticed the other day that the ground was blanketed with fallen leaves. Fall had arrived imperceptibly as we eked out one more minute of the waning summer days. The air conditioner and fan, which had been on continually since our arrival, has stayed quiet these last two days. The weather reports tell us some areas have experienced their first frost. My last grocery delivery had a plastic jug of pressed apple cider, surely a sign that fall is here.

I looked up at the sweep of trees in our neighborhood, noting the twinge of rust on the edges of some of the leaves. Pretty soon, the air will be crisp each day, requiring us to don a jacket as we head out doors. Even the meals I cook changes with the subtle shifts in temperature. Heartier dishes of stews and casseroles seems fitting when the air outside is just cold enough to energize you yet not cold enough to make you shiver inside your coat. This time of the year and the changes, some dramatic and some subtle, that is a part of the natural slowing down rhythms, also offers us time to take stock. The end of another year is far enough away to fill you with hope that your list of 'to do' is still within reach, even if not wholly realistic. Yet, the end is, for most of us, in our sights as the signals of time's passage now manifests in ways we now accept as normal. The stores, some decorated with Halloween, will too quickly, be decorated for that other holiday of gold garland and red velvet.

And so, another year looms ahead. Another year, another blank page, even if the story is already half written by the daily responsibilities of each of our lives. This gaze forward is coupled with the natural need to glance backwards, to see the progression of your life. When I do this, I see many distances, physical and emotional. I barely recognize the sadness that had filled out the rough sketch of my image.

This sadness now takes on a different hue as it is fueled less by the frustration of living a life unrecognizable to what you had wanted, but instead is a wistful melancholy for the sacrifice of friendships and daily contact of these intertwining relationships forsaken for this new life, a life I had dreamed into reality by the sheer force of my desires, or so it feels.

It is this time of year that one is forced to contemplate your life and life in general as time slows down each day. Pretty soon, the day's light will be shortened to an hour where the day feels truncated as the sun sets in the late afternoon. And with this will come the burrowing in of ourselves behind glass and plaster, shielding ourselves from the increment of weather raging outside.

California Driver--No More

Once you've moved, boxes unpacked, paintings you've collected now adorning white walls, family photos placed on table tops, every vestige of moving smudged away, the moment arrives when you take the inevitable plunge and head to the DMV. The dreaded institutional building where long lines are de riguer, suffering abuse at the hands of disgruntled state employees part of the experience as you forfeit your current license to receive one from your new state.

That moment had arrived for me to become a New York driver, to be the holder of the card with the state's insignia across the top, all verification I was no longer a Californian. The experience at the DMV on 34th was, as expected, exasperating. Lines moved at a blistering pace. The officials taking your photo and looking over your paperwork were brusque in their manner. The momentousness of this moment as I crossed this new threshold to shedding my LA life was of little or no consequence to the various people behind desks. Was I sad about shedding this last official claim to my former life? The moment, like most big ones, was less of an earthquake than a slight quiver.

My son and I left the DMV, my temporary license in my wallet, as we headed to Herald Square for some shopping and lunch.

Parenthood---Hardest Job, Ever

There comes a point in your journey as a parent when you have to make difficult choices, the kind of choices that will make you seem monstrous to your kids, and to those witnessing this moment. Such a moment has come to pass in our family. Our next door neighbor, who has two kids--one boy and one girl--had invited us to their country home in the Catskills for the Jewish New Year vacation. While the invitation was a lovely, generous gesture, it did seem a bit premature since we have been in the city a total of three weeks, and our, the two moms, conversations have occurred in short fits since we are usually standing at the front door as our two boys careen up and down the hallway of our apartment building. Thank goodness for nice and forgiving neighbors. I had noticed that her son was even more high energy than my son, which is saying a great deal since our kid is like bottle fuel packaged in a 40 pound body.

But since I was raised ever so properly, I accepted for a shorter duration than the five days that had been originally offered. I baked a cake and brought some of the home made pasta sauce I had made and frozen for those days when all I have the energy for is to defrost and boil some noodles.

And so we set off in her station wagon with the three kids in the back, a DVD machine hooked up for the kids' viewing pleasure, and water for two plus car ride. We had left after my son's swim lesson, which was around 4:30 or so. Well, let me say that everyone seemed to have left work early that afternoon, heading their cars for the FDR and destinations in New Jersey and New York State. It took us two hours to snake our way out of the city toward the freeway, or rather, highway that would take us to our final destination--The Catskills. Imagine being marooned inside a small car with three, verbal kids, who are tired, bored, hungry, and now just plain angry. Right, a root canal would be more fun than those two hours in that car. By the way, the total car trip took 5 hours to get to their house. During the course of this lovely car ride, my son, aided by the precocious 7 year old, got into an argument. The outcome being the little girl, who did goad him, started crying.

So, here was the difficult moment when I had to a) reprimand him, b) and then follow through with the threat I had to use for him to quiet down and to then apologize to the little girl. I know I must have sounded like Joan Crawford in "Mommy Dearest" to this mother, who doesn't, obviously, do a great deal of reprimanding of her kids. But I know I'm not trying to raise a precocious, obnoxious, off the hook kid, who is just a general nuisance to the world. We arrived in the darkness, one child already asleep. My son and I slept together, giving us a chance to discuss what had occurred and why we were getting up to have breakfast and to go home.

There was the moment, the difficult moment: we got up and I followed through with my earlier punishment option and left on a Trailways Bus after breakfast. I could have ignored what had occurred during that interminable car ride, the result of which was me being "Mean Mommy," but then that would have meant the possibility of having a child who would always disregard my threats as idle.

A few invaluable lessons were learned by this beleaguered Mom: never accept an invitation from someone who is essentially a stranger, never get into a car headed anywhere outside the city limits during rush hour, and never be held hostage in a car with three kids for more than half an hour, tops. My son fell asleep in the bus so pooped out from the arduous trip there. Relief came in spasms when I saw the first peaks of high rises in the horizon.

Intersections---Crosswalks

You can see the multitude of the world when standing at a corner, waiting for the light to change. This city, home to some 8 million inhabitants, is where people of every stripe, shape, color, language, and every other distinguishable characteristics that separate us from one another, have come to live, to work, to fight, to dream, or simply to exist. And none illustrates this diversity, this convergence of peoples than the list of those who died on September 11th. This list of names, some faceless, others not, encapsulates the draw, the romance of this city. I don't think there is an ethnic, racial group not represented by those names. There are Muslim sounding names alongside those that are Irish or Anglo-Saxon.

When you live among so many bodies and so many lives, it becomes easy to feel invisible. My presence on that street corner, one of so many, becomes, in so many ways, inconsequential to those standing alongside me. This invisibility creates a shield, allowing you a certain freedom. People may or may not observe you, but again, your face, your body blends into so many observed in a day. Ever since coming home, I've realized how easy it is to disappear here in this city of so many. How easy it would be to walk outside and simply disappear, if not for my son and my husband. The search for this missing person becomes much like that cliche of searching for a needle in a hay stack, a near impossible task.

The feeling of being observed, but not really noticed, is what keeps all of us sane despite living lives stacked one on top of another. In Tokyo, a city that is well versed in the phrase,'crush of bodies,' people actually use mental discipline to tune out those standing so close to you that the scent of their shampoo lingers long after you've disembarked from the subway car. New Yorkers, it seems, practices this same thing unconsciously. We stand alongside one another, sit alongside one another, push past one another, and yet we allow for a certain distance where eyes rarely meet, hands rarely brush against one another.

So, I stand at many intersections, watching and not really seeing those around me. And content in the knowledge that I am observed and not in much the same fashion.

Gloomy Weather

When I lived in London, it seemed rain, or the ever present drizzle, was just a part of the landscape as much as Big Ben and the Tower of London. Today is the first day of rain since our arrival to the City. With the grayness and the moisture is the reminder of the season's imminent change. The changes will serve as the backdrop to all the seasonal holidays that seem to hurtle toward us, gathering speed. Fall, my favorite season, will be something I will experience here in a long time. And the holidays in the city will, hopefully, be all that I remembered from childhood. I hope these experiences will be unforgettable for our son.

The move here, putting us closer to our families, has changed the dynamic of these relationships. It will complicate already complicated unions, all of it good and bad. We can no longer dictate the tenor of these relationships, using distance was the armor against the complexities that seems inherent in each and every family. Although we are aware of how much messier this will all be for us, we welcome the messiness. Isn't that what families are? Intermingled relationships that are tenuous, fragile, and exhilarating.

It seems fitting that today, of all days, is gloomy. Each channel here are broadcasting the memorial service where the victims names are read in alphabetical order.

Anniversary--September 11th

The anniversary of that horrific event, the demarcation for so many of us of life before and after, is fast upon us. The changes that day brought to the city, and to the entire country, will take years to dissect. And now, living so near ground zero gives me pause in a way that is less an abstraction than when I was across the country. Today as I walked down 5th Avenue past the Empire State Building, I couldn't help but think this moment could be when I happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. As a New Yorker, you can't help but accept that this city will again be a target for those that hate what our country stands for, its excesses, its bravado, its mythology, its opportunism, its size and power. I realize you can't live life afraid, holding one's breath for the inevitable. But this sense of waiting for the impending disaster was less an aspect of every day life in Los Angeles.

It seemed, and seems, unlikely terrorists would attack anything in LA or any of its institutions, cultural or financial. The Disney Hall is spectacular, but it is too much a regional cultural icon, and in essence not even an icon due to its newness. It doesn't, nor will it ever, capture the imagination of the entire country the way the Empire State Building continues to despite its age. Despite the ego of the Hollywood industry, it seems unlikely that tourists would aim their targets at any of the movie studios. Their presence and importance in LA is more regional and local. It goes without question that the only commodity we, the United States, is producing for mass distribution is cultural. Yet, even the industry's hegemonic mentality is in question when so many new, fresh ideas are happening and being produced overseas. Rarely have we seen more adaptations being imported from foreign entertainment entities for domestic distribution. We only need to say, "American Idol," that phenomenon which was, and still is, a hugely successful British import. Again, we've reached a new nadir in our cultural development if variety shows from Great Britain are being imported to such great success. What's next, a round of French imports for our viewing pleasure?

We were not in New York that fateful day. However, the image of the first plane, and then the second plane being driven into those gleaming towers are indelible. Numbness was what we, as a country, felt during those 30 some hours as most of us sat glued in front of the television watching the round the clock news coverage. The pain and grief came later in waves as each of us came to understand that we had walked through a door, of sorts, where life was never going to be as innocent as it had seemed before this day, six years ago.

That January, my husband and I came to the city, and made our way to Ground Zero. The site of all those photos of those missing, posted by desperate family members, on every available wall space still makes me tear up. By this time, ground zero had become a strange stop for those wanting to take in the full scope of what had happened that day and the weeks and months post 9-11. For me, it was a moment to acknowledge all that had been lost, physically, emotionally, psychologically, and politically. Our son, conceived during this trip, was for us a testament to all the good that was still possible in the world. Instead of buying into an understandable cynicism, we, my husband and I, found the courage and hope to bring a new life into this world. I know, what were we thinking, you might ask? And on some days, we ask ourselves the same question.

My plan for tomorrow is to bake a chocolate Bundt cake to drop off at our neighborhood fire house. It is my small way of acknowledging all those men and women, whose entire life is to help others, such a contrast to most of ours. I don't know if I will be able to watch all the endless news stories that will mention this anniversary--all of it cliched. Or it may just be another day of school for my son followed by his Tae Kwon Do class, the ordinariness the only way to reassure us that the world is still safe, that danger does not lurk behind every corner.

Apartment Living New York City Style

It's fascinating how language, the ways language distinguishes items in our lives, has become a source of confusion for our family with this new move. Our son, who has only known his home to be in a house, is finding it confusing when he makes these references to our house since our house is now inside an apartment building. He asks whether when we buy our house, it will be a house, to which we've had to clarify that when we buy, it will be in an another apartment building, but that this will become our home. See, how confusing all of this is for an almost five year old?

Here are the few advantages to apartment life thus far: there are no trash cans to be brought in once a week after the gardener has hauled them to the sidewalk, there are no interruptions during the week when those awful, loud blowers wreak havoc on one's nerves, trash cans are emptied without much fuss down a trash chute just outside your front door, packages are delivered right to your door, groceries delivered to your door, and there are no interruptions to your day since it is nearly impossible for Jehovah's Witnesses or Mormons to show up at your door, hoping for a minute of your time. In fact, I don't think I've seen the noticeable proselytizers in the city, those men and women neatly dressed, canvassing a neighborhood in twos and threes with briefcases in hand. Perhaps they think this city of so many myths is lost to the holier than thou ways of their religious order.

For most people who have never lived in the city, they view this place for singles and the uber-wealthy. Very rarely do people imagine living here, raising a family, kids in tow. And yet, as I had written earlier, this city is the new mecca for families. Our apartment complex, which is part of a humongous planned community, not too dissimilar from Park LaBrea, is home to some dozen, yes a dozen, parks and playgrounds. The playground right outside our building's doors is larger than the small playground tucked into neighborhoods in LA. And since it is still 'summer-like' weather, parents bring their kids out after dinner to run off any residue energy before beginning the evening routine. It is quite unreal to be sitting on a park bench, watching my son running all over this playground with the neighborhood kids. This idyllic scene is far removed from what, I'm sure, most of our friends in LA must picture of our our new life here in the big city. This city, unlike LA, is not a town dominated by one industry, therefore making it possible to meet a multitude of professionals. So, as I sit and watch my son with a new benign neglect--quite ironic since we are living here in New York and not Mayberry--, I engage in desultory small talk with men and women with career experiences that spans, what feels like, the entire job market.

Last night, we were the last ones to leave the playground before the gates were locked for the night. My son, who has adjusted to the radical changes to his life, walked into the building, pushing the elevator number for our floor, all of these actions taken without a second thought now, this being our second week here. All of my worries about uprooting him from all that had been familiar have faded to the background as I watch him adjust to all of these changes without much thought to his former life.

What's truly remarkable is how all of the realities of city life is taken in stride by me as the mom of a small young child. When we walk past homeless men and women, panic doesn't set in that his exposure to the uglier realities of life will damage him in some way. Instead, we walk on, taking note that sometimes life offers up a reality far removed from what you had dreamed. I know we live in a 'safe' area, all of this being relative since we are in a city. But for some reason, the overwhelming need to overprotect him hasn't set in. I, like all the other parents in the area, walk down the street with him by my side, sometimes his hand clasped in mine, sometimes not, as we maneuver sidewalks and the large boulevards with crosswalks. As I used to always say, I found the eerily, quiet of the Hollywood Hills much more terrifying since the quiet of those hills hid the murderous rampage of Charles Manson and his deranged followers. Will I be this sanguine about him walking to school by himself as he approaches early adolescence through the busy streets of Manhattan? That remains to be seen. I will say his exposure to life, all of it not sanitized and distant as observed through a car window will, I think, keep in good stead as he learns to find his way in this island of city dwellers.

Education Differences---kindergarten years

I knew there were huge differences in emphasis and quality of education between LA and the East. I had no idea how vast the difference since I had spent a large chunk of my adult life in LA, having been brainwashed to believe that Buckley--the school that can claim as its alumni, Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton--was a great, prestigious institution. The lapses in intellectual rigor of those attending state institutions: Cal State, UCLA, and the rest of the UC's was apparent to me since I had been ingrained in the educational expectations of the East Coast. The reality is not just about quality, so much as the inherent cultural schisms between the two coasts. In LA, a city where a window washer can one day, miraculously, become a 'power broker' in the film industry, is a city that believes its own mythology about people becoming instant successes. Most of the 'old money' in LA were families from dusty, Midwestern small towns, who, unlike their Eastern counterparts, didn't buy into the idea that educational institutions were the necessary building blocks to prestige and success. This prevalent, long lasting cultural bias has carried over into every aspect of the city.

Despite the sunny clime and the suburban lifestyle, LA, I now discover, doesn't hold a candle for the kid-obsessed generation of new parents. New York, that fast-paced urban mecca, is all about kids and all about enrichment opportunities for the littlest denizens of the city. In LA, my husband and I, not being able to run too far from our East Coast expectations, were the parents whose kid was enrolled for endless classes, or so it felt. Now in New York, well, it seems our child has been leading a much too relaxed first five years. The endless opportunities for him to enroll in classes--Mandarin anyone? French cooking for preschoolers?--in this city is longer than the length of Park Avenue from downtown to uptown. The sheer number of activities available to kids is shocking, to say the least. Who knew? But then, it seems fitting that the neuroses of the parents, all driven people, would bleed down to the little citizens of this city of steel and glass.

Another inherent difference between the two coasts was felt my first few days at my son's Kindergarten class, which is public, albeit a very good public school, when the teacher explained that kids were to have composition notebooks to write journal entries. Journal entries? My son, who has not been pushed to read or write before the start of Kindergarten, can barely write his name much less a journal entry about how he feels. So, here we are now joining this new race. Despite my sheer relief to be back after so many years, I have brought with me some of the cultural mores of the city that had been the root of so much my unhappiness. I am signing my son up for the Tae Kwon Do classes he seems to enjoy so much, but am passing on the Mandarin classes, and definitely ignoring the French cooking classes. See, I am an Easterner, through and through. Those inherent expectations where education are concerned are at the core of who I am, and how I was raised. But I, after so many years on the Left Coast, recognize when parents are pushing their children for ego and not for the benefit of the child. Will my son spend his later years in therapy about missing the French cooking classes? I can guarantee he will spend a few number of years on the couch, but I am pretty certain it won't be for that reason. I, unfortunately, will provide him with so many other reasons.

Starbucks--No More

In LA, Larchmont had no less than three coffee shops: the ubiquitous Starbucks; Coffee, Bean and Tea Leaf; and the newest arrival, Pete's Coffee. These three shops with its frothy foam of milk atop each cup ordered was the haven for all Moms after drop off at the nearby schools, the 'writer' hard at work on their lap top, the business person on their way to work, and those from Paramount, usually of the assistant variety, filling large orders for their bosses. There are certainly plenty of Starbucks in New York, each store front vying for a spot on every street corner along with the corner grocery and the dry cleaner. But this is the land of another coffee shop, or rather, the donut shop that happens to sell some of the tastiest coffee east of the Mississippi--Dunkin Donuts. That's right, for most in LA, who may have never lived on the East Coast, of which there are quite a few, Dunkin Donuts is the land of the munchkin donut holes and the perfect sugary, doughy confections that I grew up with. One bite into a glazed or coconut covered donut elicits all those food memories from my childhood. Every Sunday at the conclusion of Mass, the kids would get a donut from Dunkin Donuts along with a cup of fruit punch.

I had forgotten about Dunkin Donuts until I was back in Boston, the city where Dunkin Donuts beats Starbucks. It was in Boston that I got hooked on their coffee, which is prepared for you with a healthy dose of milk and sugar if requested. The coffee is much mellower in its after taste than Starbucks. And perhaps it is this connection to my childhood that has made this coffee stop my shop of choice. Lord knows, I love a latte as much as any other person. But there is something so satisfying about sipping that sugary, milky, drink. Then there is the cost, a much more reasonable dip into one's wallet for that milky coffee from the donut store versus the latte that costs more than a happy meal.

And in truth, there are very few coffee shops outside of the East and West Village where people sit and linger. The Kaffe Klatches that were everywhere in LA doesn't exist here. The moms who don't work seem too busy for such leisure activities. The 'artistic' types even seem to keep themselves busy since this cafe society doesn't exist here. I have yet to venture into a movie theater at 11:00 AM for a matinée (very little time for such activities), but I'm certain the theater would be filled with mostly senior citizens and a few stragglers bold enough for such indulgences during work hours.

Summer's end can be felt when you are shaded by the vertical structures that dominates this city's landscape. In no time, sandals will have to be put away for many months, close toed shoes a necessity. As I remember, this time of the year makes one contemplative about another year's end. This year, 2007, will be a watershed year in my life since it will be forever remembered as the year I came back to my emotional home, now truly home.

Last of the Summer Days in the City

The New York Times had an article describing how New Yorkers were heading outdoors to sit on stoops of brownstones, the steps of the Public Library, the steps of the Met, and most obviously Central Park to engage in the most mundane of activities--reading books. Yes, that's right, reading. If there is a cultural difference between the East Coast and LA, it is this one...reading. When I first moved to LA from New Haven, no less, I was dumbfounded by how little, if at all, people seemed to read. Whenever I'd mention a book I was reading or had read, my reference would be met with a blank stare, quickly masked by faked interest. It seemed that people (obviously a gross generalization), predominantly in the Entertainment Industry, hardly touched a book, and seemed to view Vanity Fair as high brow reading. This stereotype of Angelenos not reading seemed to extend far and beyond to those in the Entertainment Industry. I knew a woman, who viewed herself as really smart by her measure, who never seemed to read anything. It was quite remarkable actually. I had never met anyone who didn't read at all.

The ever present sun might have had something to do with this phenomenon of people not reading. One could argue that the bleak, grim winter months attributed to Easterners being more avid in their reading habits since gray days make it more challenging to engage in outdoor activities. But in truth, how can weather be blamed for the cultural emphasis or avoidances of a whole city?

My son and I trekked to the New York Public Library where the steps were adorned with bodies sitting and enjoying the summer day. Everywhere I turned, people seemed to be reading or watching the world as it passed them by on busy 42nd street. It was one of those scenes, which the writer of the Times article was describing, a city disengaged and engaged all at the same time. The juxtaposition of engaging in this solitary of acts, reading, while outside among the world is reassuring in some odd way. What's fascinating is how much people seem to read in public spaces like buses, subways, and outside on stoops, it seems. Now, the city of perpetual nice weather, if weather were the determining factor, rarely lured its citizenry out to the public places (very few that are inviting) for them to sit and read. Actually, very few people seemed to sit outside and enjoy the weather in such public places. The one exception are the countless coffee shops that had outside tables, which seemed to draw a certain group of people, who seemed to have loads of time to sit and drink their coffee.

We spent Labor Day in Central Park where we laid out blankets and ate the Kimbap I had prepared for our family picnic. This park, one of my favorite places in the city, is such a contrast to Griffith Park, its counterpart in LA. For one, it is much more grander in scope, and is available and used by all New Yorkers. Our son, who loved this park on his visits to New York, now played and ran as a native city kid. Each day here seems to embolden him as he maneuvers this city.