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2008-02-20T08:13:00.000-08:00

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Old Books

2008-02-15T06:00:00.001-08:00

I recently ran across a copy of a book that had been read by me and most teenage girls: Go Ask Alice. It was strange to see that haunting black cover and to be immediately transported to 1980, the year I read this book. Of course I read it for the titillating sexual references and the thorough analysis of drug use. This book, along with Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, were the touchstones of my adolescence. Salinger would follow shortly thereafter, but these two books were ones I read late into the night, holding my breath in fear of being discovered by my parents.

I saw this copy of Go Ask Alice in a hip clothing store in Soho, of all places. I wasn't surprised since they were featuring a new line of clothes designed by an actress known more for her style than her acting. She, like so many young girls growing up in the late 70's and 80's, had obviously found this book to be one of those seminal discoveries of her life. No need to ask whether I bought it since my original copy was long lost or packed in boxes stored in my parents basement. Not only did I buy it, but I came home and reread it, this time with different set of eyes. Yes, I'm a wee bit older this time and a bit more experienced. Regardless, I still flipped through those pages quickly, practically devouring the words.

The first thing that struck me was how implausible it was that these entries were written by a young teenage girl. Believe me, I still have my diaries from high school. And they are not nearly as eloquent or well written, and I was a better writer than most of my peers. Diaries tend toward the minutiae. This book seemed to be tackling big humongous themes of social unrest, social upheaval, all experienced through the eyes, even if they were clouded by drug use, of a young teenage girl. Right, highly improbable.

When I'd read the original copy, I didn't give much thought to the accuracy of its authorship. It was sold as a real diary written by someone named, Anonymous. And most of us read it as such. The underlying message of drug use being bad was accepted as truth since Anonymous supposedly dies a few weeks after her last, rather upbeat, entry. OK. Let me just say the anti-drug message of the book didn't do much to deter my own experimentation with drugs, which followed shortly after I'd read this cautionary story.

Now as an adult my curiosity was piqued. Who was this Anonymous? Since the book came out during an era where only three networks and two or three local channels existed, the media storm that would have followed didn't occur. Instead, the book became the source of local fights about the First Amendment as communities banned the book from the shelves of local libraries. But again, these were local fights, and not likely covered by Walter Cronkite and others. Imagine this book coming out today with our 24 hour news networks, of which we now have a dozen. There is no way the 'author' of such a controversial book could hide, even under a quarry of rocks, without being hunted down and found.

I did a Google search and discovered that the book was purportedly written by its editor, who is a devout Mormon. Not too long ago, another writer, most likely the ghost writer, was discovered as the other author of this book. In light of the writer, the Mormon one, the book's message of anti-drugs is all the more understandable. True, the author was writing in response to the late 60's and early 70's when our cultural understanding of America was splintering beyond recognition. Does all of my new knowledge about its authorship change the impact this book had on my adolescence? No. I read it as truth. And in truth, I read it for the salaciousness of it all. And not too soon after, I was taking my first puffs.

Now with a child, I am wracked by how to answer that inevitable question "did I use drugs?" If asked this many years ago, I would have said veracity would be the only solution to being able to have an honest dialogue with your child about this very important subject. But now as a parent, that notion seems fraught. It feels like hypocrisy of the worst kind to tell your child, "yes I used drugs, but you shouldn't use them". Somehow such an admittance feels like you've lost your moral authority to have any say in this matter. As if you are giving your child permission to try since you had and survived. See, how impossible this is for someone who had experimented quite happily and blindly?

My new copy of Go Ask Alice will now join my collection. I'm glad to have rediscovered it again, and to have read it through these older eyes and through the reading glasses I now have to wear. It was something to be transported to 1980, lying on my bed, my bedside lamp on, flipping the pages as quietly as I could deep into the night. Being so quickly transported to your childhood is a rare occurrence these days, especially for me since I am feeling so adult of late.

Poetry and More

2008-02-14T04:54:00.000-08:00

As a mom I'm a bit fascist about certain things that can, and will, influence my son's life. We monitor his television viewing assiduously, only allowing an hour each day. We don't allow him any video or computer games. We make sure he eats good, wholesome, healthy but tasty food. We don't allow him to play with guns, although we did break down and allow him swords. We are, like all other parents of our generation and class, annoying helicopter parents. Fortunately for us, and unfortunately for him, our 'uniqueness' makes all the rules interesting, at the very least.

As a writer, I am strident in things I will read, or not read, to our son. Books without a narrative, the only exception being poetry, are off limits if it's mommy's turn at the bedtime reading ritual. The information laden books boys love about topics like Mummies are saved for his father, who has no such ridiculously pompous edicts. Music, something on our house more than the television, is expansive, covering all genres and styles. We deplore the new batch of music for kids, put out by musicians who seemed to find success with the four and under crowd. The only exception to this was Dan Zanes, formerly from the Del Fuegos, who put out albums that adults could stomach. Let's just say we attended enough Dan Zanes shows, which reminded me a bit of the Dead shows I used to attend, to label ourselves Zane Heads.

So, last night my son and I finished off his Valentines for his classmates. We were feeling especially close, having had an inordinate amount of time together this week. He read to me from the two books he was assigned for homework. The repetitive sentences in the books, all in an effort for him to learn to read, are prosaic, and in truth, boring beyond belief. They make the Dick and Jane series from our childhood read like masterpieces. After two such books, I suggested we read some poetry to counter balance the stilted prose and unimaginative vocabulary. He agreed and suggested Robert Frost's, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". We read this familiar poem two times because of the brevity, and to prolong that time of the day when we say 'goodnight'.

After we were finished, I asked if he would like me to read him some Langston Hughes, whose collection I was rereading. I chose as the first poem "Negro". He listened intently to it, not asking questions as he is apt to do. I should have stopped there, but I was quite honestly reveling in the language of Hughes, and wanting to prolong this day just a few minutes more. So I picked "The Negro Mother," a longer narrative poem that is beautiful and heartbreaking. As I got to the line, "Children sold away from me, husband sold, too," a sob welled up. Yup, crazy, right? Crazy to be reading him Hughes, and this poem in particular. As tears streamed down, I read on. My son's little hand wiped away my tears as he listened to his lunatic mother continue to read Hughes words out loud.

It's times like this when I think how much better off he'd be with a more normal mother, one who'd happily read him books about Mummies. The only consolation is, I suppose, his life will never be dull. Not with me as his mother. So, we kissed and said our 'goodnight.' It's funny what he'll remember about this night. Will it be my tears, or the transcendent language of Hughes, or both? I pray that it is both.

Security

2008-02-13T05:26:00.000-08:00

The going joke among black comics is the bit about the first Black President, delivering his State of the Union address, not at the podium, but rather running across the floor of Congress, all in an effort to dodge the bullet from a would-be-assassin. This image of a grown man, much less the Commander-in-Chief, having to skitter across the floor of Congress is hilarious. Yet, you can imagine the fear that a black President must have each time he stepped out into public, wondering whether this would be the day a bullet would deliver a fatal blow. Colin Powell, another black man of political stature, had entertained thoughts of running, but he was, supposedly, discouraged by his wife. It seemed she was afraid she would become another national widow, like Jackie Kennedy, Coretta Scott King, and Ethel Kennedy, all of their husbands now part of the myth of lost hope and opportunity for this land of ours, a job she did not want.

As I watch the excessive coverage of Barak Obama, a contender for the top job by all the projections, I can't help but wonder how much money is involved to keep him safe. And whether his security detail will be greater, more intense than any other President in our country's history. Our world, now a place where terrorist threats are a reality, is also a country deeply conflicted about gender and race, despite the unexpected results of this primary season.

It may not be a crazy fundamentalist, from some country where men wear grow beards to show their piety, who may do the unthinkable. He or she may be a homegrown, whose fervency is not about religion but about purity of race, who may be the person to pull that trigger, thereby ending this new era of hope, change, and new direction.

My son, all of five years old, has asked us whether we are voting, and for whom. A part of me is proud he knows the names of all the candidates, even if he calls Barak Barakie. He has plugged into the significance of Barak Obama being the first black, or in his words, first brown President if he were to win in this election. Again, I'm immensely proud to see him absorbing the reality of a black man and a woman candidate. While all of us focus on the significance of this moment, given our country's history, for him this is just the way the world works. And isn't that what we hope for our next generation?

I'm sure as Barak Obama's stature has grown, the crowds he addresses swelling to sizes not seen in a long long time, his security detail has also grown. No doubt, political powers, behind closed doors, must be wringing their hands each time he steps up to a podium or reaches into the crush of well-wishers. If he were to be elected President, a part of me will be holding my breath, perhaps for the entire four years, that the unthinkable will not happen, yet again. I'd rather see his superstar status tarnished as we realize that he is mere mortal, full of idiosyncrasies, complexities, and contradictions, all of it to be played out on the stage of our political arena. I don't want his image to become mythologized, joining the ranks of so many, his image this momentary flash for hope and healing--the tentacle-like shackles of our slave past finally cut off the limbs of our country's consciousness. So, let his security detail swell to a size that none of us had seen ever if this is our only hope to keep him out of harms way.

Sick Days

2008-02-12T05:31:00.000-08:00

There is nothing worse than a sick child. You are never more helpless or desperate than seeing your child taken down by whatever ailment. When my son was just over a year old, he became very ill. His cough was so violent he vomited the little food we had been able to feed him. As we listened to these coughs wracking his little body, I went upstairs half-crazed with worry. Not knowing how to make him better, I found myself climbing into his crib, so I could lie next to him, rubbing his back, hoping his cough would ease enough for him to sleep. I remember listening to his uneven breathing as he finally drifted off to sleep, my feel scrunched up under me, realizing I was quite stuck inside his crib. When my husband finally came upstairs to carry me out of the crib, he knew I had turned a corner, some would say into the heart of every mother where any, and all, sacrifice for your child is never given a second glance. You can understand how mothers of serial killers will be unwavering in their love for their child, even if he or she had become a monster of the most unimaginable variety.

I pray for his health, always. I'm always aware of how precarious life is for us all, especially the young. And nothing seems more cruel or inexplicable than a child facing down a life threatening illness. With that said, I can honestly say I get more than a bit annoyed when my child develops the sniffles, something that occurs with great frequency given his age and the propensity for kids his age to touch everything and everyone. Being sick is terrible, indeed. But being just sick enough to warrant a stay home, but not sick enough to sap his energy is what feels like you are the unwitting victim of a cruel hoax, the kind that ends up on "Candid Camera," with you looking like an idiot on national television.

First, there is the energy level, which doesn't seem to abate with a little cough or stuffy nose. In fact, there are moments during the day when the energy level seems to spike, so you watch in amazement as your child does a strange Irish jig across your living room rug. With his hands on his hips, doing a strange imitation of Lord of the Dance, you wonder what about parenthood was enticing enough for you to have gone off of birth control. Along with the energy, which doesn't cork itself with a few sniffles, is the never quenched inquisitiveness. It's as if his mind becomes one big permanent question mark since each sentence is guaranteed to start with, "Mommy, why---". Perhaps your sympathy, empathy, and patience would be unflinching if only your child didn't suddenly turn into Lord of the Manor, every request sounding more and more like an imperious bark as the day wears on.

The day has a certain symmetry to it. It is something I can predict with some accuracy now, my fifth year into motherhood. The first hour they are home is fueled by your anxiety that he is simply battling a cold and nothing more serious. With the recent meningitis outbreak, my mind immediately rushes toward the catastrophic as my hand reaches out and feels his forehead every few minutes. The second hour we are stuck together has me looking anxiously and longingly at the work on my desk, all of it obviously left untouched. See, even if he weren't so noisy, demanding, and just a plain nuisance, all of my energy is sapped from all the worrying,tending, fetching, and negotiating.

The third hour has me wishing I'd sent him to school, germs be damned, instead of having him cooped up in this apartment with me. The fourth hour, the most dangerous time of the day, has me contemplating stealing out of my apartment, leaving him alone so I can clear my head and squelch my ever-growing anger and antipathy for him, his father, his school, that cough-riddled classmate, and the parents that sent the germ-riddled kid to school. Yes, child welfare services would certainly get involved if I were to do that, but I can't stop dreaming about escape, no matter how severe the consequences. The fifth hour is when I call my husband at the office, my anger having built to such a level where blame needs to be aimed and fired. Yes, poor husband.

By the sixth hour, I am doing online searches for apartments in Paris, my new city of choice. When I was in LA, I used to spend hours on Craigslist looking for places here or in New Orleans, another city (pre-Katrina) that seemed exotic and exciting, two words that would not be used to describe my life with a sick child home from school. The seventh hour has me cowering in utter defeat in the face of the little Napoleon sprawled all over our bed. Every bark is met with me rushing to fill his water cup with icy cold water, the pillows plumped up for fear his neck develops a crick, and possibly rubbing his little feat, if he so desires. Should I also say that I am still in my pajamas as is my congested child?

As the gray day turns to early night, my body aches from the emotional turmoil of being an attentive mother to a mildly sick child. With dinner looming, another demand to be met as his stomach seems untouched by this recent ailment, I marvel at the vicissitude of this life, my life, so utterly different than anything I had ever imagined. I know all mothers out there, those that are somewhat attentive and loving, have had many days like this one. But you never quite get over how alone, utterly alone, you feel in this prison the one created by a little cough, a little congestion.

I am into hour two of our day together. I haven't yet started online searches for a new home, really a studio apartment for one in some far flung city. But I'm sure that will occur within the next hour or two. With the imperial request for salmon for lunch, I find myself taking out the frozen salmon pieces from our freezer. As wearying as the day becomes, the phrase, "This day will end," becomes a mantra of sorts.

Families

2008-02-11T05:53:00.001-08:00

It's endlessly fascinating how families function, or not. As an outside observer you are given mere glimpses into the dynamics of mother, father, child or children. Don't add grandmother, aunt or uncle to that mix since that will surely mean endless hours of speculation and discussion. I feel you always get a more honest view when you aren't intimately involved with other families. It's as if proximity has a way of distorting the reality of a family's dynamics, the dysfunctions, in particular. I suppose that's to be expected since your affection for the family will make you gracious and generous in your opinions, even if their child is a hellion and off the hook, the parents barely functioning, and the husband prone to alcoholic rages. See, your affection can forgive many, many transgressions.

When you are mere neighbors, your view, really, snapshots into their lives, occurs with no ability on your end, or theirs, for control. You, and they, are exposed in such naked fashion. The shrieking you hear through the walls has no context since you aren't in the apartment to witness the irrational, full-blown melt down your child or theirs may be having. Instead, all you hear is the shriek, which sounds, despite it being muffled, agonizing, as if the child were being tortured behind the wall that separates your apartment from theirs. These unplanned occurrences do have a way of exposing the real truths to families since you aren't in control of them. I know most of us wish walls were thicker, the ceilings made of steel, basically your apartment soundproofed to mask your family's dysfunctions from the rest of the world. If only.

Living so close to others makes you hyper aware of how your family sounds more than the way you appear. You become self conscious about the noise you make, even if it is more pleasant than a child's shrieks. Even in your most heated moment, you are reluctant to raise your voice above normal speaking range, for fear your neighbors will imagine you and your spouse headed to divorce court.

All of this is a change from our life in LA where sound was rarely considered. You felt quite alone in your home, the neighborhood just a backdrop to the drama unfolding behind closed doors. I can only imagine how much more alone, and the sense of freedom that must provide, if you lived in a home shielded behind gates. It's only in LA that the Manson family could have tortured and brutally murdered so many people. You can imagine those poor souls crying and begging for their lives, their pleas unheard or noticed by their neighbors. Such a thing is unimaginable here where lives are barely separated by walls and ceilings.

As our son pitches a fit about something, whatever is the grievance of the day, I become aware of how we must sound to those next, above, and below. They must think, as we do about our next door neighbors, that our child is either a monster, our parenting skills bordering on ineptitude, or our child is the victim of the worst crime imaginable--child abuse. After one of these episodes, your chagrin is written across your face as your run into one of your neighbors in the elevator or by the mailbox. You smile, make small talk, and hope they have picked the less egregious assumptions about your child, your parenting, and your family. And pray their memories are not so long since they will hear the distress signals coming from our apartment soon enough.

Season of Lent

2008-02-08T05:17:00.000-08:00

It is that time again, the season of lent where abstinence, abstention, abstemiousness, and asceticism are the words one associates with this season of Ash Wendesday, Good Friday, and finally Easter. It is, unlike the Christmas season, a more somber time despite it occurring in spring. As a Catholic we are told to give something up for the season of Lent. And each year I ponder what one thing I can forgo as a way to show my devotion. For a girlfriend, it was food. Of course she was being funny, but also a bit serious since like most women, dieting was as much a way of life as breathing despite her enviable figure.

As a child I would make sure to give up things that weren't going to be missed. I didn't understand how one's piety had to do with suffering. I hadn't learned about the Catholic tradition of flagellation and deprivation since my Catholicism was about faith and love. I guess this is all a way for me to say that I never really practiced Lent all that seriously.

But this year for some odd reason, I am considering this ritual a bit more closely. Lord knows I have so many vices that would be difficult, if not impossible to give up. The first vice is my habit, my absolute love for all profane words, particularly the F word. It's funny, despite being a word person I still view four letter words as somehow so perfect in all of their vulgarity and aggression. Sadly, it is an adolescent rebellion I have not outgrown, much to my mother's dismay. Then there is the love for wines. Hmm. Since becoming a mother, a healthy dose of drinking is required to get through a day, if not a week. Giving up drinking might end with me in sanitorium, perhaps permanently since life would feel so much more sane inside the loony bin than outside with a small child and no booze.

If I wanted to be kind to my spouse, I might forgo shopping for this season of abstention. But then there is the spring season with all of the shoes and hand bags in jewel tones to make that consideration absurd. But since my shopping is not limited to clothes and accessories, well, where would one start? Books? Surely God doesn't have such grandiose expectations for his flawed and human flock, right? Needlepoint? Well, let's not take away the one thing that can quell my ever-churning mind. Forgoing this obsession might mean my husband and child may need a Mommy break of the permanent variety. Food? We all know I'm the last person who can afford to not eat. Music? Magazines? Where do I start to come up with something of the purchasable variety that would be appropriate to give up in the name of my devotion?

See how impossible all of this is for a person with my particular peculiarities? It is a challenge since so many of my vices stem from the neuroses of being me. Doesn't Lent mean more than simply giving something up? Or am I missing the point? That's not too hard to imagine since I was not a diligent student in my CCD classes, the ones I attended and didn't blow off to sit in the nearby Roy Rogers with my other lapsed Catholic friends. So, I will ruminate, rule out, consider and reconsider all of the options available to me for this season of Lent. And since I seem to do most things at a blistering pace, anything that involves serious thought and consideration, I might just come up with the appropriate thing, item, to forgo just in time before Lent is officially over.

Woman for President---Why Not?

2008-02-07T04:28:00.000-08:00

Of course this is a stupid question. As a woman, raising a boy, I still find it amazing, if not bordering on shocking, how more than half the world is governed by men. Really, have you seen them as a five year old? It's unbelievable that the spastic boy, skipping, karate-chopping his way down the sidewalk could, one day, be the President of the United States. When this spinning dervish is cutting a swath down any sidewalk in our neighborhood, I pretend he belongs to someone else, and not me. Believe me, it's much easier and less embarrassing this way.

So, why not a woman for President? Haven't we waited long enough for this moment? Geraldine Ferraro was more a symbol than a real possibility. And in truth, our country wasn't ready at that time to wrap their heads, male and female, around the possibility of the White House having to contend with PMS and other known stereotypes of "womanhood." Yes, the Brits had had Thatcher for years, but again our country is so much more entrenched in patriarchal models than other nations.

I guess my real question is not why not, but rather why her? She being Hillary Rodham, then known as Hillary Rodham Clinton, and now just known simply as Hillary Clinton. I am an ardent foaming-at-the-mouth feminist. Add French Deconstructionist, Marxist, and you may have an idea of my militancy. In high school, I was chosen by my school to attend a symposium held at the UN where high school delegates from all over the country would listen to speakers on the topic of the symposium, which in my year was: Feminism in the World. It was in the great UN General Council hall, at the same podium where world leaders have spoken, berated, or begged their international brothers and sisters, that Betty Friedan and other noteworthy Feminists espoused their derision for the male species. I was asked to give a speech at this conference in the UN General Assembly, addressing my view that Feminism was a Western middle-class construct, and therefore not to be exported in its singularity all over the globe. Yes, I really did give such a speech in high school.

I've thought a great deal about Hillary Clinton, and why it is I'm exhausted by the thought of her running this country. Yes, if she weren't up against the superstar of a Barak Obama, maybe I would be less ambiguous about her as a candidate and as a President. But then I recall our first introduction to Hillary Rodham, claiming rather defensively she didn't "stay home and bake chocolate chip cookies," since she was out busy fighting for woman's rights, and fighting in general to make sure her husband would become the most powerful man in the country. The backlash from this statement, the message of which was not lost on a great many women, was that Hillary Rodham quickly became Hillary Rodham Clinton. Then there was the Hillary Rodham Clinton, who defended her philandering husband by stating, again rather defensively, she was "not some little woman standing by her man". And now we have Hillary Clinton telling us, urging us, to believe in her ability to lead this nation, all the while sending out her husband as an attack dog. Hmmm...Does give one pause, right?

True, she was the first, First Lady to have an office where more was being done than simply scheduling state dinners. Remember the mess she made of the health care issue? But those eight years, the crowning moment being the impeachment trials, and then the charges they had plundered the White House on their way out, and the country's fatigue with all things Clinton (the result of which has been the last eight years, along with our current First Lady, who by all measure, is supposedly smart, if not mute) has brought us to a point where the country is begging for something more, something different.

I wish I could love the first woman, who has a real shot at being President. What a significant moment this is for us, but again I'm plagued by my ambivalence about, and toward, Hillary. The transparency of her ambition, which should be viewed as a positive attribute, has the exact opposite effect. Instead of applauding her chutzpah and drive, I am made uneasy by it. Why? Are the subconscious messages of the archetypes of the powerful woman as a sinister figure, just remember Medusa and Lady MacBeth, so ingrained that I'm made to question this smart, driven, woman, who just happens to want to be President? Does my uneasiness make me less of a Feminist? Or is there something more behind my uneasiness?

Or is it that she is a feminist of her particular generation, thereby making it harder for me to understand the stridency and urgency behind all that she had accomplished? Do I suffer from the luxury, made possible by Hillary and her cohorts, of having less to prove, thereby left with the need to have a more nuanced approach to the battles between the two sexes? Whatever the causes behind my ambivalence, I am left grappling with the complex emotions, rather strong, that she brings out in me. Believe me when I say I so wish I didn't feel this way. No matter what happens, she's already done more to break that final glass ceiling in our country. She's made it possible for us to consider, rather seriously, a woman as Commander-in-Chief of this nation. I do believe what we need the next time out is a superstar of Barak Obama's caliber, a woman who can transcend gender. Unfortunately for Hillary, she ain't it. That, I do believe, will happen with someone who will be more my contemporary.

Missing Friends

2008-02-06T06:06:00.001-08:00

My day was interrupted yesterday by a call. It was one of those calls that are so welcome, a call from a dear friend in LA. It seemed she was headed to New York, surprise, surprise, and hadn't called earlier until she had ticket in hand, her arse nearly in the seat. She is the kind of friend where distance is of little consequence. It is a relationship that seems, to the rest of the world, inexplicable, yet it is a relationship of the best kind--the one of the heart. It is the kind of friendship where you feel safe enough to show your bruises, those wounds that are shielded, held tight against the rest of the world. She is also the kind of friend that makes you laugh at yourself, herself, the world, and sometimes just laugh for no real reason. Even though we don't speak much, our daily contact broken, our relationship is still intact, the affection and fondness never dimming despite the distance. She is also the kind of friend always on the ready to share a bottle of wine or two, or in our case, three or four.

It was after a call from our other friend, we were a trio, that I felt a momentary, heart-stopping sense of loss. I'm happy here, yes, and the work of constructing my life and my work is all consuming. And perhaps that is why it's been easy to keep my head down, bury myself in words, my son, my husband, and push aside the sadness of so many I miss, especially my girlfriends.

She called from the car as it lumbered its way through Queens, headed toward the city. With little prompting, I got up and raced to meet her at her hotel. As we sat in a French Bistro, another bottle ordered, the miles, physical and metaphorical, disappeared. We were again exchanging confidences, our hearts reconnecting in a way that only women can do with one another. See, men may be for some of us the framing of a house, but your girlfriends, well, they are the trimming that makes a house a home. Without them, it would be just plaster, structure, and an empty shell, no matter how strongly constructed.

This morning my head was a little fuzzy, my heart just a bit heavier, missing my girlfriends.

Election Day, Parade Day, All in One City

2008-02-05T05:06:00.000-08:00

This is a bonanza for news junkies all over the country: Super Duper Tuesday. It is the day that will not decide who will win the Democratic nominee since it's apparent no real front winner will be announced at evening's end. For New Yorkers, it's also the day the Super Bowl Champs will arrive to be driven down Broadway for their celebratory parade. The news broadcasts' forecast for the traffic woes is disheartening. The subways, headed downtown, will be jam packed with people in Giants gear, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new heroes. With so much going on, it's hard for New Yorkers to prioritize--go to work, vote, or go to the parade. This idea of skipping work is problematic since all indications point toward a major recession, a deflation where many will be humbled by their shrinking investments.

This week's New York magazine was sobering, indeed. They listed cheap places for hair cuts and eateries where $16.00 can buy you enough food for more than one meal. With private equity and hedge fund money now being compared to the 80's junk bond hey day (anyone remember Mike Milken?), well, it seems the party is now over. Of course, these new kings of private equity and hedge funds will have an opportunity to remake themselves into the mold of Milken, now listed as a philanthropist, new age guru, and general Los Angeles crazy person with too much money.

Another article in the depressing issue of New York magazine also dissected how money, the illusion of it, the lack of it, adds to an illusory deflation or inflation of one's real self worth. And how with more than a few people being brought down to a level, not of the masses, but down a notch or two, may do wonders for the psyche of the average man. Perhaps if the city, particularly those making as much money as the budget of small or mid-size nations, is not doing as well, the focus will shift from consumption as a past time to something less tangible. If people were worried about belts being tightened, even if those belts are Hermes, they might spend their energies in other ways that doesn't involve profligacy being the center piece of their project. This city may finally become a city of dreams, but also heart. It's an interesting idea, don't you think?

It's interesting for me to be here just as another era, the one defined by private equity, hedge funds, and private jets, is coming to a close. I've just left a city that is all about glitter and illusion. It is a city where people, living in studio apartments, lease cars that are equal in cost to the mortgage of a house in St. Louis. It is a city where you can peel away the many layers of gilded paint, revealing just plaster underneath. It is a city where flash trumps substance, where money, or the illusion of it, is the ultimate game. And where this parlor game gets played on all socio-economic levels from the gated homes in Holmby Hills to the barrios far east. Everyone gets caught up in, regardless of the size of your pay check.

I know money is the blood line for New York, yet...I haven't felt the anxieties most describe about being surrounded by such uber-wealth. I find enough people here are realistic about their lives. Perhaps that is the difference between LA and New York, two similar animals, yet also diametrically opposite. LA is all about illusion instead of the concrete and metal that dominates New York. The ever-present sun in LA shimmers much like fairy dust, casting a light that is quite breathtaking, no matter how illusory. It's the sun that can turn the ugliness of Sunset at Vermont into something approaching grandeur. Again, illusion, nothing tangible. It's only when the sun is gone, replaced by gray and rain, that the true grit of the city reveals itself, much to the distress of its citizenry.

For the average New Yorker, reality, the grim and the transcendent, presents itself on every street corner. It's hard to get caught up in games that aren't germane to your current life, no matter how tantalizing it might be. So, the 'old' money of private equity and hedge fund will be, no doubt, replaced by some other game of cards. It will give birth to another batch of super kings, who will, like all their predecessors, face their demise at some point. The city will get caught up in the major sport of consumption, the memories of reflection, introspection, and kindness all a dim memory. And in another decade, the New York magazine will, again, spell doom and gloom for this city that seems to survive, despite it all.

Super Bowl Champs

2008-02-04T04:57:00.001-08:00

Our son, who'd never paid close attention to football, had been excited about this Super Bowl since his home team, the Giants, were playing for the big title. We didn't want to tell him what a long shot they had of winning. It seemed cruel, even for us, to deflate his enthusiasm by telling him the Giants were going up against one of the best teams in football's history. It was exciting for him, and for us, to have arrived here, a city that has a team, and to have that team go on to the biggest sporting event of the year. It felt much like Cinderella arriving at the big ball, disbelief marking each magical moment.

I baked our chicken as my boys got ready, the big one with his six pack, the little one with his plate of gourmet cheeses and crackers. The game, by all accounts since I didn't watch all of it, was exciting, nail-biting till the very end. Our son finally went to bed, his eyes drooping despite his best efforts to be a big boy and stay up. In truth, I fell asleep, until my husband woke me to tell me the Giants had won. His voice, which I recall, sounded incredulous, a man struck dumb by the lightning bolt out in an field.

The morning papers arrived, each one with a snapshot of the winning team, hoisting the trophy into the air, confetti falling around. This morning's drop off was all about each child having the bragging rights to claim having stayed up to watch the big game. It's funny, how even at such a young age, they understand the significance of such moments. It's unlikely any of them may end up as a player in the NFL, having their lives defined by such a cataclysmic event. Yet, it is the participation in these collective moments, the team's victory hoisting each of us up, even if just for a moment. And even at the age of five, each was now a participant, no matter how peripherally.

All of the parents rushed outside to be met with the falling of big, downy snowflakes. It's the kind of day when curling up with a book, slippers on one's feet, and a bowl of something hot in a mug, is the ideal antidote to such a gray, wet day. We haven't had any significant snow, yet. In fact, my son's in disbelief that it snows in the city at all since he's always asking to go to places where it snows. But as that Prince song goes, it can snow in April, so I'm certain by this winter's end, he will be a convert to the vicissitude of winter here in the city. And when he is much older, we will remind him how his first year as New Yorker was capped off by the fairy tale win of the Super Bowl by the Giants.

Election Debate---LA Style

2008-02-01T04:54:00.000-08:00

Last night's debate, held at the Kodak Theater, home to the "American Idol" finale and the Academy Awards, was a revelation in the cultural mores of LA. The debate was hosted by CNN and the Los Angeles Times (a paper that is just a cut above one of those small town regional papers), moderated by Wolf Blitzer (could that really be his name?), and much anticipated by those politically obsessed. It was a big night, no doubt, and each of the candidates worked hard to convince us, and the world, that they were ready to take the helm as President. It was the most nuanced debate, thus far. There was substantiative discussion and dissection of their differences, or lack thereof, in policies.

But one had to remind oneself they were watching CNN and not the E! Channel since there were so many celebrity cut aways, those 'dignitaries' sitting in those coveted seats. Let's just say the camera panned to Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and Police Chief Bratton just once. The rest of the evening felt like we were watching one of those inane award shows, such a specialty of Los Angeles, where every opportunity is taken to show celebrities sitting, and trying to appear serious and intelligent.

So, who, you might ask, was in attendance? Well, here's a run down (it became sport as the broadcast wore on) of those noteworthy attendees: Steven Spielberg, his wife (what is this woman's name? Does it really matter?), Leonardo DiCaprio, Diane Keaton (in her trademark hat, looking as if she'd just stepped off the set of 'Annie Hall'), Rob Reiner(who is the stereotype of a liberal Hollywood person), Roger Ebert(does he live in LA?), Stevie Wonder(could be really mean and point out how pointless it was to give such a good seat to a blind man, but will refrain myself), Alfre Woodard (black actors had to represent), Isiah Washington (that homophobic actor), Pierce Brosnan(really, he's Scottish or something, right?), Topher Grace(hmmm...his name, what can one say about it?), West Wing Actor (don't know his name, but does it matter?), Louis Gossett Jr., Gary Shandling, Fisher Stevens (what, exactly, has he been in?), and Fran Dresher.

Now, it might be important to point out that Jane Harman, the 7-term, Democratic member of the House, was seated up in the balcony, and not given one of those front row seats. Hmmm. I did point out this night exemplified the cultural mores and problems with Los Angeles, right? Yes, actors do vote. But did they really need to be given those prime seats? Where were the bastions of the Democratic party? You know the ones I'm talking about, the Steel Workers, the housekeepers, the taxi drivers, and all those other worker-types.

Now, it might be the celebrities' feeling deprived from prime time coverage since each of the award shows seems to be a non-event. Or perhaps it is the historical event itself, and the star power of Barak Obama that had them clamoring (oh, come on, you can picture all of their agents calling in favors to secure those seats for their clients and themselves) for those coveted seats. It was a spectacle, truly. And CNN did a masterful job of making themselves look less like a credible news organization with each shot where the camera lingered on the face of one of these inconsequential persons.

As I scrambled to write down all of these celebrity names, keeping track, I felt such relief we were no longer Angelenos. This evening's broadcast crystallized all I found reprehensible about the city's inability to become serious about anything other than celebrities and Hollywood. The evening would have been perfect if Paris Hilton had been sitting behind the homophobic actor, trying to look sexy, kittenish, and scholarly, all at the same time. She would, much like Demi Moore, have had on glasses to make herself appear more intelligent. But someone in the Los Angeles Democratic Party machine, CNN, and the LA Times drew the line--no matter how narrow it may have been. Perhaps Spielberg's attendance (he is considered royalty in this town) signaled the seriousness and gravitas of this evening. Unfortunately, for the city and its lost citizens, the rest of the world didn't quite see it that way. But that is the beauty and tragedy of Los Angeles, isn't it?

Visitors--Most Unwelcome

2008-01-31T05:07:00.001-08:00

We've had two visitors, those who actually stay with us, thus far. One was my crazy aunt, the other, my crazier mother. Both being family makes them the easiest to have spend a night or two on our very comfortable (we've been told) pull out couch we spent a fortune purchasing when we moved here. We've had another visitor here the last two nights, convincing me to make sure our place is never too comfortable to warrant more coming to stay.

Our visitor, someone I only met in Aspen at the writers' conference, is a person I don't know well. I found it quite remarkable she asked to stay with us while attending the AWP conference being held here in the city this week. I know such a thought would never, ever cross my head, much less have it voiced. And being so conditioned to be proper and nice, I said yes. A decision I instantly regretted and resented. I fretted, oh how I fretted, about how to get out of this gracefully--an impossibility since she'd already purchased plane tickets.

So, I did what I could to circumvent her need to stay with us for 6 nights (yes, 6 whole nights) by telling a fib, and thereby reducing her ability to stay with us down to 3 nights. This is the worst solution since I am the world's worst liar, ever. I was the kid that always told the truth, no matter what the consequences since lying was something that would only get me into bigger trouble. And since I was such a lost cause when it came to lying, well, it always seemed more prudent to admit, 'yes, I'd gotten drunk last night'.

This visitor does leave each morning, and stays out all day. But again, she's someone I know so tangentially, so having her in our place is something of a nuisance. I don't think she was bothered by any of this since we just saved her a small fortune in hotel costs. I couldn't figure out why she was coming since the conference is always interesting in concept, but always disappointing in reality. When I asked her what she hoped to get from the conference, she admitted she just wanted to come to New York--and stay for free. That's when I realized we absolutely must not have an apartment that is too comfortable, by any means. I know people always want to come here, and if they can stay for free, all the better.

There are friends and then there are the freeloaders, like our current house guest. She, of course, arrived without a hostess gift, and so far has been the worst house guest. This would be somewhat excusable if she weren't as old as she is since she has daughter's just a few years my junior. Thankfully, one more night and she will have packed her bags for wherever her next free lodging may be. She did offer, as some consolation, if I ever wanted to come to Boulder, Colorado, I'd have a place to stay. Hmmm. I've been to Boulder once. And that would be about as many times as I'd need to go to that quaint, college town. The inequity in her offer is lost on her, obviously.

This all gets to the heart of my problem: my inability to say no. It is something I must work on. Really, none of this is this woman's fault. She asked. I answered. Bottom line. So, next time some other cheap person, who is barely an acquaintance, makes this same request, I know to answer with an affirmative, 'no!' Of course, I'll have to do it all on paper or, better yet, in an email.

Confusion

2008-01-30T05:11:00.001-08:00

Women and men are worse off today than our parents may have been. How, you ask? Yes, there is the whole devaluation of the dollar, the shrinking of the middle class, blah, blah, blah. But the real confusion, the kind that can pit one spouse against the other, occurs because gender roles for men and women are no longer so clearly defined. The patriarchal world, the one our mothers understood and maneuvered, has been scrambled, jumbled, and messed up, leaving all of us scratching our heads. This is the age when the Metrosexual Male, those men in touch with their feminine side, is a part of our consciousness about male identity. We now know there is a distinction between swishy men and those simply into good grooming practices. This gender confusion now makes a marriage a constant battle ground as we try to figure out what our roles are supposed to be.

Most of my friends in LA had no such concerns. They seemed content to stay at home, assuming traditional roles, the very roles Betty Friedan and others had fought against. Most seemed relieved actually to be able to stay at home, even if they were bored witless by the lack of intellectual strenuousness in this 'privilege'. Now that I think about it, most never, ever voiced concern at all. It was more of a collective sigh of relief that they'd found a man, caught a man, and thank goodness he's a good earner, and can now stay at home being taken care of by this very man. It was all a bit disturbing, as if the last forty or so years since the ardent feminists had argued more for our sex had never occurred.

Some could argue that educational levels may play a part in a woman's satisfaction or dissatisfaction with their marriage. The more educated you are, the less likely you are to be satisfied. And certainly not to stay at home playing the dutiful wife. Sad, isn't it? The higher your degree, the certainty of your unhappiness. When I look back on this particular group of friends from LA, most had a BA, although some couldn't even claim that. Very few had anything beyond a BA. Most had worked, but seemed to be happy to not have to do it again. Some even had lucrative careers, financially, if not all that stimulating. One could say they were happy to have avoided a life of the middling management life by getting married. And most could never understand what it was I did with my time when I claimed, 'to be working.'

The writing life is a mystery for most people, other than other writers. We do this thing, most people aren't really capable of doing, alone, for hours on end. The end product may or may not get published, thereby adding a sense of futility or, if one is so inclined, as masturbatory. We are a world where productivity has to match some result. But the writing life is one where such artificial expectations defeat the whole purpose of this thing you are driven to do.

My marriage sometimes feels like an archaeological expedition as we try to dig out clearly defined roles for both husband and wife. Our search and negotiation is all the more vexing because of the ephemeral quality of my work. What's worse for my dear husband is the fact I was raised by parents, despite being Asian, who are ardent feminists. I was told my entire life that a woman's happiness depends on her ability to carve out a separate identity from wife and mother. That really, men may leave, and children will definitely leave, therefore you'd better have something of your own or you are screwed. This also went along with all women should absolutely have money of their own. The idea of a woman's financial life being dictated by a man is absolute anathema to them, and would be a signal of failure.

With such pressure, you can imagine the sense of urgency in our search for our respective roles as husband and wife. And how complicated it all becomes since I view my career and the productivity of my writing life as important as his. Sometimes when we've gone around and around about these very issues, I secretly wish I could be more like my friends, those content with being just a wife and mother. This secret wish lasts a nanosecond once I recall the underlying boredom and unhappiness each exhibited, sometimes unwittingly. But nonetheless, I do harbor it, every so often.

Life would be so much easier if our roles for husbands and wives, were clearer less amorphous. But it seems all of it gets murkier each year, all of us floundering around trying to figure it all out for ourselves. I suspect divorces will start to occur with some frequency in the next five years. Whether or not they will be the result of the confusion in gender roles still remains to be seen. All I know is the archaeological expedition seems to go on and on, each year bringing a new territory to be explored.

Weepy Politics

2008-01-29T04:42:00.000-08:00

Politics rarely make me emotional, other than outrage when compromise is the only certainty for every elected official. I suppose compromise is what we hope for rather than outright financial malfeasance or corruption on a level that would mean your elected officials being taken away in hand cuffs.

But yesterday was that rare moment in my life. I am a part of a generation, raised on the myth of Camelot, the offspring of John and Jackie Kennedy, our generation's Prince. We did not experience first hand that moment in our history when anything and everything seemed possible. A man walked on the moon as our country was being divided by the war, civil rights, and the loudest argument for the cultural legitimacy of what it meant to be an American. What followed those magical moments was one heartbreak after another as each of the leaders of this era was gunned down, meeting their fate in such a final way. Their fate, unfortunately, also sealed our country's fate. What followed, the eruption of divides and the cynicism coming from Washington felt, somehow, inevitable. See, I wasn't even born when President Kennedy was shot, so I have no ability to recall for anyone what I was doing when I learned the news. For those from this era, they can recall with such exact details of that moment when they learned their youthful innocence and hope had come to an end. This one moment would, in so many ways, shape our country's fate for generations.

So, it was surprising to me to find myself getting weepy as I listened to the rousing, heartfelt, impassioned speech given by Senator Ted Kennedy. There's nothing like listening to Senator Kennedy give a speech on the Senate floor, covered on C-Span. This man's unerring commitment for all the truly liberal causes of the day is one that should inspire us. If not for that fateful night when his demons were too great, the outcome of one error in judgment sealing his fate to forever remain a Senator, we might have had a third Kennedy in the highest office in the land, carrying the torch left in mid-flame by his brother.

Why, you might ask did I find myself so moved by this political speech? For the first time in my life, it didn't feel like politics as usual, but something more profound in what was occurring on that stage. Yes, there was the unmistakable torch of the Kennedy legacy being passed to the unlikely of heirs, Barak Obama. But there was something grander, more important than just a legacy, more myth than reality, that was being touted. It was a sense that we, at this moment in our country's history, has a chance to bank on a risk. Like all risks, the outcome is uncertain. We might all wake up from this euphoric trance to find this man, whose life story is in itself an embodiment of the possibilities of our country, is just human and like all the rest. But I hope not. As all of those who are betting on him are hoping not.

As Senator Kennedy's speech reached that peak when the roof of the building seemed ready to erupt, I felt my eyes well up. I knew I was watching something historical. I knew this Democratic Primary was historical. And for once, I wanted this sense of possibility and hope to be something my son experiences in his short life. So, that when he is of voting age, a black man, or a woman, or a black woman, or a biracial man or woman, or a gay woman or man, running for the highest office in the land will not be the central part of their election. But that they are running because they are no different than any other politician that came before them. Whether he wins or she wins the nomination, something remarkable has already happened in our country. We've all overcome the notion that either a black man or a white women could ever run for the highest office of the land in any serious manner. We know now, after yesterday, just how serious both of their candidacy is for them, their parties, and for our country. And so, that is why I felt myself weeping as I listened to these seasoned politicians speak. For once, it felt historic for all the right reasons, even if it was all still just political theater.

Reading

2008-01-28T04:46:00.000-08:00

It's true I am a voracious reader. As my husband likes to point out, it's not simply the volume, but the breadth of what I read that he finds astounding. It is one of those annoying traits that I can, and usually do, refer to something I'd read when we're in discussion about whatever topic. What's worse for him is when I, not only refer to the article or book, but then tell him he should read it as well. My need to read, or always have things to read, can sometimes feel more like a compulsion than simply a life long passion.

If I had nothing to read, I would read the box of any food item from my cupboard, taking in the ingredient and nutritional information. I know I've read more than many people I've met, except for my professors from grad school. Actually, it was the first time I'd met people, who could recommend books to me.

In any given week, I will have plowed through the current New Yorker, the Economist, the daily paper, the Sunday New York Times (which gets delivered on Saturdays here), a quick perusal of the Wall Street Journal and through the two or three books currently on my nightstand. If I'm getting my nails done, you can count People and UsWeekly into that list. I also purchase Vogue and Elle, not only for the pictures, but to actually read the articles. I've been known to rip out articles from those glossy magazines of female aspirations and mail them to friends who might find them interesting. Yes, it is a sickness. The one thing I don't read, which I'm quite proud, is any book that sounds remotely like self-help. Pop psychology with titles like "Chicken Soup for the Soul," never, thankfully, enter our home, ever.

When I was in LA, I had to do my reading during the day, usually at lunch. If I wasn't completely exhausted from the day, I could read before bed. Despite the very little time during the day for reading, I did still manage to read more than most people I knew--not a real challenge in LA.

However, now I find I can read on any bus or subway, which means I can get through the New Yorker in two days versus the five it took me in LA. What does this mean? It means I'm reading more, faster, including books. And since we have such limited space for books, this is a challenge, indeed. I try to avoid going to book stores weekly, but allow myself a monthly visit, which usually means sheer gluttony as I make my way through each section.

This Saturday was a designated book store day. After getting my son and husband off to their activity, I headed to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. I prefer the Strand, but the nice people from Barnes had sent me a coupon, which I'd carted around with me for over a week. The first thing that struck me was how busy it was inside. True, the weather is cold, so an afternoon spent at Barnes and Noble can be highly enticing. Unlike the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, it wasn't the magazine section or the cafe that was the center of activity. But rather, each section had people browsing, or better, reading a page of a book that had caught their attention. You know that stand and read position people take at bookstores or libraries.

I made my way through each section, finding the new book by J.M Coetzee and Bernhard Schlink among the treasures. It was, all in all, an intensely satisfying day at the book store. As I left with my bag, I emerged from the doors of Barnes and Nobles, falling into step with others headed east. Now, the question remains how I am going to store all of these new books that seem to enter our apartment on any given month. For me, it is a good worry to have since the alternative would mean scouring box labels for insight and inspiration. Even for me, this would border on the absurd, signaling a long stay at a place where I would make arts and crafts out of Popsicle sticks.

Strange World

2008-01-25T04:59:00.000-08:00

A young actor has died tragically in a rented Soho apartment. Despite the heated political competitions, all of the news organizations have been covering the story, news cameras and their correspondents stationed outside his building. Our fascination with celebrity has reached such a fevered pitch that an actor's, who was talented, untimely death can supplant news coverage of a much bigger issue facing our nation: the next Presidential election. This blog is not to smear this actor's name, or to cast his death as irrelevant. I can't imagine the grief consuming his parents as they make that long flight from their native Australia to New York City. No, I'm trying to make the point that our culture has to gain a new perspective beyond what is covered between the pages of US Weekly.

Our country is facing real problems, some too complicated to be solved by a few platitudes or rhetorical flourishes. Yet, each time a news correspondent reports live from his apartment, the spontaneous shrine seems to be growing each day as strangers come by to drop flowers, notes, candles, and pictures of him cut from magazines. This need for the public to connect with someone they never knew is a strange response, something I have a hard time comprehending. I, like everyone else, was shocked when I heard he had died at such a young age. I was overcome with grief for his parents as they made their heartfelt statement outside their home. Losing their son so suddenly must seem surreal, the pain settling into their lives long after their son is buried, the news media long moved on to another titillating story.

But my shock, sympathy, and passing interest in the unfolding story has not propelled me to go the short distance to his Soho apartment to leave flowers or a note expressing my grief for someone I never knew. His short-lived career, unfortunately, made him a public figure. Yet, the assiduous coverage of every moment of his death feels intrusive, as if we've now crossed a line somehow. I can't help but wonder whether he'd appreciate this growing shrine outside his apartment door. He struck me as someone who tried to live his private life behind closed doors, even if a zoom lens still splashed pictures of his unguarded moments on to the pages of countless magazines.

His life and death should be in sharp contrast from Anna Nicole Smith, who courted any, and all, coverage, good or bad. The tabloids were how she stayed relevant, and how she made money. This actor, obviously a sensitive person, didn't court the media, but understood his rise in stature meant his privacy being compromised. So, shouldn't we draw a distinction in his death from that of someone like Anna Nicole Smith?

Learning the details about his death has made me reflect on my own health. See, I have all the same prescriptions found in his apartment. Like him, I suffer from insomnia, which has been bad of late. I also suffer from panic attacks, which can hit me unexpectedly, making me feel as if I were having a heart attack. I am what Freud would have labeled as a neurotic, a term for those whose sensitivities make them victim to such physical manifestations. I don't think this actor died of an overdose. But yet, I can't help wondering whether the combination of prescription medications was somehow the cause. And would I fall victim to just such an outcome after a bad period of not sleeping and panic attacks coming fast and furious? The one reassurance, if I were to die, is that there would be no spontaneous shrine outside our building. Hopefully, the only shrine or messages will come from those who have known me. My death, unlike this actor's, will, hopefully, be dignified as I am finally laid to rest. I hope the media moves on soon, leaving him and his family privacy as they bury their only son and mourn his death. Where is Brittany Spears when you need her?

Childhood Freedoms

2008-01-24T05:30:00.000-08:00

It would seem a strange notion that kids in this city enjoy freedom of movement, rarely experienced by their peers in suburban towns. How, you might wonder, would I arrive at such an observation? I can only compare the life our son had had until his move to the city, a life that is now more mobile for him.

In Los Angeles, our son's first four and a half years were spent with him strapped into a car seat. Bicycles, skooters, skateboards were all toys to be used sporadically in the backyard of our home. Despite living in a cul-de-sac, a round-about that Armenian teens liked to screech around in high speeds, leaving behind skid marks, he was rarely given freedom to use his skooter around the neighborhood. Life in suburbia creates more acute anxieties about child abductions or kids being mowed down by distracted, or worse, drunk drivers. We were lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that felt "safe" enough for kids to be pushed around in their strollers, offering nannies or moms an excuse to gossip and get some fresh air. But even this illusion didn't lessen our hyper-control over our son's movement.

To get anywhere else, school, activities, play dates, was all managed with him in a car seat, being chauffeured around the congested roadways of LA. Therefore, his sense of freedom and mobility was dictated by us or his nanny, again, his world lived entirely within the confines of a car seat.

With our move to the city, all of this has changed. We walk everywhere, using public transport whenever needed, a cab if there is an issue of time or weather. With all of this walking, I've noticed how much freer his life is now, no longer strapped into a car seat. The razor, a vehicle of choice among his classmates, is no longer just a toy, relegated simply to a backyard. But now, it is a way for him to get around the city, on his own terms. "Little Manhattan", a movie about first love among Manhattan kids, clearly illustrates this freedom of movement for kids here. I can't help but notice kids, some as young as eight or nine, getting on and off of the buses, heading home from school. Such an idea would be unheard of in LA or any other suburban town where moms, caretakers, or school buses would be the only acceptable mode of transporting a child from school to home. I'm certain parents here are no less worried about their kids facing dangers. But you manage your parental concerns differently here. I'm certain by eight or nine, our son will be given a five or three block radius where he can move about without the constant watchful eye of either me or my husband. I can see the ties loosening even now. In LA his use of the razor as a way to get around would have been unthinkable. Yet, here we are, me walking briskly behind him as he pushes his skooter up 20th Street to his school.

We're reminded of how much more confining children's lives are in suburbia whenever we visit our extended families, where he is again strapped into his booster seat. Despite the "quiet" streets where both of his grandparents live, he is rarely allowed out to play, again relegated to the backyard as the only option. I'm certain all of this freedom comes at a price where kids become savvy, city-smart, and sophisticated beyond their years. Isn't that the stereotype of kids who grow up in big cities? They've seen it all, done it all, some finally seeking a simpler life in rural or suburban areas when they are given the choice to create their lives. And their suburban and rural peers, desperate to leave behind the quiet, seek freedom and excitement in the big city. I suppose none of this will ever change, therefore our son's desire to move to the woods of Vermont when he is an adult, seeking quiet and freedom to live in a more natural setting, will not come as a complete shock to either me or his dad. We would expect no less.

Quirks, How Could One Have Any More?

2008-01-23T10:55:00.000-08:00

There are so many little details of one's life that has to be accounted for when you move 3,000 miles. Perhaps the changes might have been of little consequence if we'd ended up in a bedroom community outside the city, replacing one suburban life for another. However, with life so dramatically altered, it is the little things that make this transition all the more startling. The search for doctors in a city teeming with medical professionals has been almost as arduous as the recent rigors of trying to get our son into a private school--I did preface by saying 'almost'. I have asked others for references, finding that sometimes those who are friends may not be the best judge of doctors. Or rather, we may have different criterias for what we look for in our medical provider. Being intensely phobic of needles, doctor's offices, dentists, and just general health facilities, my needs, or requirements, are, I'm discovering, quite different from those who are much more sanguine about going to a doctor's office.

My recent search for a dentist has been a trial of patience (on the dentist's part) and a trial of all of my worst phobias for me. I am a bad dental patient. There is no other way to describe the acute panic that I have to fight while in that chair. My dental experiences weren't any more horrific than anyone else's, despite the three and a half years of braces. But the helplessness and vulnerability of lying on those reclining chairs is enough for me to self prescribe an extra dose of Xanax before any visit. My fears were so bad that for years I'd had laughing gas just to have my teeth cleaned. Thankfully, my old dentist, whom I adored, had convinced me that I didn't need to be so doped up to have the hygienist clean my teeth. He was a very patient and kind man.

Trying to find his replacement, a tall order for anyone, but excruciating for me, has been unsuccessful, thus far. My first visit with a young dentist, who appeared overly aggressive in the things he wanted to do, had me in such a panic that I was near tears when I left his office. I know, I know, I'm a mess. It's amazing my husband doesn't just laugh out loud whenever he receives those calls of distress. Thankfully, I'd met and fell in love with my new orthodontist, to replace the one I'd left behind. His calm, gentle bedside manner had me confident my old orthodontist had made the right choice for me. So, now I'm on going to interview the two other dentists referred by my new orthodontist, given my phobic predilection.

It is these small, or in my case, not so small details of remaking one's life that poses challenges that you hadn't foreseen when you were pining for this exact thing to happen. Even me on the worst day of neuroses wouldn't have foreseen the patience required to find the right doctors.
So, I have an appointment with another dentist, who will charge me a small fortune for me to interview him, to insure he wouldn't scare me half to death in his zeal to make sure I don't end up with a full set of dentures by the age of 50. It is such challenges that makes me almost nostalgic for my old doctors. I did say almost, right?

Roast Chickens

2008-01-22T05:13:00.000-08:00

The day is one of those perfect ones here where the sun is bright in the sky, the air cold. It is the kind of day when the world seems to have woken up from a deep sleep, all perky, ready for what is ahead. I have been, of late, obsessed with perfecting a dish that is seemingly easy, but quite difficult to get just right--the roast chicken. I'm not a fan of chicken, finding the overuse of it as a substitute for meat a poor substitution for a nice piece of steak. Perhaps as a result of my indifference, I'd given little thought to preparations for it that can elevate this every day meat to something bordering on the sublime. I know the French do a wondrous roast chicken, which is heavenly in the moistness of the meat and the crispiness of the skin. But since we don't live in Provence, well, I'd always relegated chicken for something I cooked out of guilt rather than out of a real desire.

A recent cookbook put out by a food writer in London changed all of this around for me. Simon Hopkinson wrote the kind of cookbook that I love, full of interesting anecdotes about having eaten sweetbreads in a small Italian village, some, thirty years ago. The writing is very English, which means it is hyper literate and amusing, another trait the Brits have mastered. This book, unlike the mass market junk put out by the likes of Rachel Ray, is a book that should be read cover to cover.

In my thorough perusal I found his recipe for roast chicken that perked my interest. Why, you might ask after so many years of indifference? Well, it might have something to do with the pound of butter he used to lather over the bird, an absolute no-no in our health conscious eating and cooking life. But since I believe food should be savored, not devoured, therefore all things should be cooked the way they were originally meant to be cooked, there is no substitution for ingredients in my house. I cook with butter, olive oil, use butter when I bake. I do draw the line where shortening is concerned, finding that to be something I can't wrap my head around.

After reading and rereading his simple recipe for the roast chicken, I decided to bake two birds for a dinner at our house with some friends. A girlfriend was over for a visit, watching me lather the two birds with enough butter to clog up a few arteries. I knew it was bad when she said, "that's alot of butter." But despite her doubts, I put the bird in as instructed by the recipe. I'd added a few of my own touches like layering the roasting pan with root vegetables. Within fifteen minutes, our apartment filled with the fragrant aromas of butter, vegetables, and herbs. When my girlfriend and I peaked into the oven, the bird was baking to a perfect golden color, the skin very crisp, the bottom of the pan filled with the delicious gravy.

The meal was a huge hit with the kids and adults alike. The two five pound birds were devoured, very little of the carcass left by the end of the meal. The orzo risotta I'd made as a side dish was also completely gone. It was the firs time I'd made a chicken that lived up the worship of those who live on this one meat source.

I haven't tried any other recipes from this amusing, well-written book. Somehow the idea of cooking shortbreads in our apartment seems a sure way to make sure we lose all friends on our floor--not that they are plentiful.

School Interviews

2008-01-18T04:54:00.000-08:00

My husband and I attended the last obligatory event at a potential school, just last night. We had finished our very last interview Wednesday afternoon at one of the highly touted schools. This flurry of tours, interviews, and child interviews has given us an interesting perspective about this city, its neuroses, its drives, and its insanity. The rigors of doing this in such a truncated period has felt like we had run a marathon, competing with world class runners, except we hadn't trained properly. The exhaustion from just going and coming to so many schools has been beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Then you add the anxiety of finding out February 15th your child hadn't gotten in anywhere, well, you can see how high the stakes are for all of the families involved in this process.

Last night's event, hosted by one of the schools, was a discussion about 'diversity'--code name for, we try to have some brown faces as to not appear completely racially insensitive. The issue of diversity is complex, to say the least. And diversity goes far beyond race, color, but is really about having a representation of the world at large. In a city where the middle class is shrinking faster than most actresses post pregnancy, what you see is a polarization of two worlds: the haves and the have nots with most have nots being the ones that also represent racial diversity.

My husband and I have fully accepted the reality that our son will always be different than any of his peers, that is unless he ends up in school with Tiki Barber's kids. The chances of him having a classmate with his racial, cultural makeup are about as likely as us winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. With that in mind, we can hope to have a class where his black peers' families will feel much like ours. And that there will be some Asian, possibly even Korean, peers to reflect both sides of himself, even if they aren't mixed in quite the way he has been.

We found last night's event troubling in its tone of victimization. It is the classic mistake for 'liberal' or 'pc' mindsets that diversity, or being diverse, is a negative which has to be bolstered. This belief that diversity, or rather, creating an 'inclusive' world where the benefit is only for those of color is truly a narrow way to view the notion of diversity. A diverse community and its benefits is a two way street in this ever-changing world. If this current election is any indication, our country will have to grapple with gender and racial politics in a way it hasn't done, ever, in its history. Words like marginal only add to this sense that those of color are somehow in need. There is some veracity to the inequities that have be overcome, even by such fabricated methods, but the victim mentality is one that can debilitate those who don't need anything else to hinder their progress.

What is striking about attending such events is how alone my husband and I feel in our own uniqueness as a couple, but also as individuals. It is quite remarkable to us we found one another. We understand the racial politics and the inherent inequities of institutional racism, but we don't ever view ourselves as 'victims'. We don't view our color or ethnicity as a negative, but rather as this beautiful background that poses a different set of challenges and advantages for us as individuals. And what we understand better than anyone else is how different those challenges will be for our child, the progeny of our commitment that the world will be different for him than it was for us.

As a person who has taught, and will teach again, my assessment of schools is more rigorous than others who may not have an education background. There are times when I wish I'd been a baker, blissfully ignorant about the expectations of what should occur in a classroom. My critical eye makes it impossible for me to feel completely at ease with any one choice. I think there are some good choices, but my uncertainty about any one of them being the ideal fit for our son is what keeps me up most nights. It is also the need to flash forward into the future of our son's development, having to make a decision that could determine who he becomes. It is all a swirl in our heads, each of us wondering if this one decision could affect him in ways we can't possibly imagine. Again, this is when we both wish we could be much more insouciant and confident whatever decision gets made will be for the good. This is when the old adage of, 'ignorance is bliss' has some bearing.

So, now we wait along with the thousands of other families all across the city. We will, like most of us did when we'd applied to college, await those envelopes, thin signaling defeat, fat signaling victory for our 5 year old. What has happened to our world that this is apex of childhood is determined by the size of the envelope? That is what I will be mulling over as I, along with everyone else, wait for the arrival of those envelopes.

Neighborhood Gossip

2008-01-17T04:58:00.000-08:00

When we left LA, I also left behind a social world that felt like a throw back to another era. Women stayed home, men worked, kids were shuttled to T-Ball games, soccer games, pool parties, and play dates. In some ways, the social incestuousness of these families co-mingling cast an illusion of the All-American experience. But like most idyllic scenarios, there was an undercurrent of ugliness that was stifling. Gossip was the real past time of all those twenty or so families involved. I could imagine a few affairs among the spouses causing tidal waves of unrest. During my experience it was the adults that behaved like children as phone lines lit up after a cocktail party, dissecting the evening's intricacies. The kids, all too young, hadn't become the cause of families splintering over slights, hurt feelings, bullying, and possibly even young hearts being broken. But I imagine that is all just around the corner.

The New Yorker reported on a story that resonated with me, reminding me of the cloistered neighborhood I'd just left in LA. A young troubled girl committed suicide after meeting a young boy on line on her MySpace account. It turns out the boy was pure fiction, created by her former friend and this former friend's mother. The young adolescent's suicide is tragic beyond comprehension, but the story really paints an ugly picture of a world where lives are so unhealthily intermingled and where time is plentiful. What's unfathomable is what happens when parents get so involved in their children's lives, boundaries blurring as mother's take on their child's hurt feelings as their own. The story also showed the way technology has accelerated social situations. Behind the mask of words, intimacies can be revealed all too easily. Personalities created or discarded with one key stroke, sometimes with such tragic consequences. The real tragedy here is that this young girl, in the throes of that time in all of our childhood, adolescence, was going through what most of us had gone through. Yet, with a few email exchanges, her loneliness and self-hatred took a turn impossible to comprehend.

The most shocking part of this story is that the mother behind this has shown no remorse for her part in this horrendous story. In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong. Egregious morally, yes, but not illegal. These two families still live on the same block, having to face one another in this suburban town as they try and go about their lives. I don't know why this piece reminded me so much of LA. I could see all of those families we'd socialized with, the ever-changing alliances part of the amusement of most social gatherings. I could see all of those families I'd come to know so intimately, falling victim to this type of pettiness as their kids got older. It wouldn't be the slights over who got picked or ignored for a specific T-Ball team, but would now center on a few of their daughter's friendships fracturing as one girl became the target of their collective meanness. Kids learn these social games from their parents, I believe. And it is easy to see how kids would emulate their parents, whose behavior is no better than that of teenage girls and boys.

We have not yet become so ensconced in such social situations. This year has been a reprieve, allowing us a freedom to explore and examine this city without the strictures of social groups, each them embedded with expectations and rules. I don't know how moving to a different neighborhood, moving our child to a different school may change all of this for us. I'm hoping New York is much too big, much too preoccupied with games of life that extend beyond cocktail parties, to fall prey to such pettiness. But who can say? We may find the Upper West or East Side is a replication of the four blocks in Hancock Park that was the center of the universe for those families. I pray that is not the case.

Asphalt Jungle

2008-01-16T04:38:00.000-08:00

My son is learning the rules of the game out on the concrete courtyard where recess is held. So far he hasn't been abused too badly, but given enough challenges to make me want him to leave public school forever. Let me say that any previously held convictions like, public school is important, goes right out the virtual window where your child is concerned. In the beginning of school he told me a boy from another class hit him for no reason. Hmm. This was of concern to me since I couldn't imagine why my son was being singled out. And being a neurotic mother, I spoke to his teacher about the incident.

I've noticed a few things about this school, which was rated an A by the Mayor's standards. It is a good enough school, mostly a neighborhood school. The stream of parents and kids walking down 20th Street in the mornings attests to this school's dominance in this neighborhood. Such a thing never happened in LA where neighborhood schools were forgotten by everyone except those too poor or too unaware to find something better. And the idea of walking your child to any school, even if the school were only two blocks away, was never a consideration for anyone. To be able to walk my son the short block to school has been a welcome change compared to the half hour drive that I had done for so long in LA.

For a New York City school, the lack of real diversity of the school community was a bit of a shock. The student body seemed dominated by the strongholds of Stuyvesant Town, mostly a white, middle class enclave where the rent controlled apartments are passed down from one generation to another. I believe some of my son's classmates are the second generation living in their apartment. With ridiculously low rents, most families have bought second homes in places like the Poconos, the Catskills, and the Jersey Shore. I know, romantic, you say.

The few students of color I did notice seemed to be kids already labeled as "special". I was told in confidence by a mother in my son's class that one of the two black girls in the class (they are the only black students aside from my son's status as biracial) lived in a homeless shelter. Hmm.. No one likes to mention her docility, probably personality driven, but most likely a result of having lived a chaotic life where pleasing others is a survival skill. Or the fact that she is one of the smartest in the class. Whether or not she will be able to get the kind of education she deserves is an unknown, all driven by factors that she had no hand in creating. The other black student in the other Kindergarten class is a boy, who is already labeled as a problem. The first time I saw him was when he was sprawled in the middle of the hallway, mopping the floor with his body, regardless of the various attempts by parents to get him to stand up. It was nearly impossible to not notice that there was something very wrong. Some of it may have been his personality, but I'm certain more had to do with whatever challenges he faced at home. So, you can imagine my shock when my son told me casually that this boy was now chasing him at recess and was terrorizing him. What could a mother do, but to have a serious talk with his teacher about this matter?

It seems he is a 'special' child in a program for kids that are being bused in from other areas. And that he is in need of special care, code word for a child who will be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. My son's teacher conveyed all of this to me not directly, but in the innuendos of what she was avoiding to say outright. The irony of my son's first hard lesson about life on an asphalt jungle coming from a black boy was not lost on me. This issue of color is a touchy subject for him since I don't think he sees himself in that boy. Nor does he see himself in the rest of his white peers. No doubt it will be an interesting life for him as he continually finds himself as unique, different, unlike any other.

If all goes according to plan, our son will be attending a cosseted, private school where such incidents shouldn't occur at all. How could they after the rigorous screening process each student and family undergoes to be admitted to attend their institution? I'm sure the asphalt jungle at these schools will be no less scary, but just different. I suspect I won't be as afraid about his physical safety as I will be about his emotional life. There may be less chasing down of their targets, but the fire coming from words, taunts, teasing. Oy vey, it's enough to make me want to home school him, forever relegating him to a lifetime of being regarded as weird, different, exotic.

Low Rise Jeans

2008-01-15T04:35:00.000-08:00

I was at a birthday party for a friend's son's birthday, who also happens to be friends with my son, when I looked around the room of eclectic parents from Brooklyn. There were the really old looking parents, a few with adopted girls from China, there were the Lesbian moms, and then there were the hip-40 something moms dressed in the uniform for this group: low rise jeans, t-shirty top, and some kind of boots on their feet. I know this uniform intimately since I am one of these 40-something moms, who tries to be hip.

There was one woman, in particular, who made me reassess my group's efforts to dress like we were still 20-something, or worse, 30-something when our lives were much different than they are today. This woman, who was quite tall, had on jeans much too tight, and much too low on the hips to hide the lumpiness of her 40-something body after a few kids. The assemble would have been bad enough with the jeans if she'd thrown on a baggy sweater on top, but instead she went for the whole shebang and wore a thin, body-hugging t-shirt, the kind that really highlights back fat, stomach rolls, and other unattractive sights of our age.

In essence, she was dressed as if she were still young. Yes, I know the new 40 is the old 30, but give me a break. Our chronological age is that of a 40 year old, no matter how our generation, or each generation, seems to be in a constant regression. Might I add that this regression of each generation claiming to be a decade younger, in spirit and attitude, is a mass market push by the Baby Boomers to stave off the eventuality that is facing them: a lifetime of golf in sunny climes, bingo games, and complaining about the chronic aches and pains of old age.

It's true we, women my age, look far more youthful than our mothers would have at our age. We tend to wear our hair in styles that wouldn't mark us as moms or matrons. (This dressing as if one is much younger is de rigeur in Southern California where every mom walks around in hip-hugging jeans) We take better care of ourselves, or so we're led to believe. But more important than the physical differences in maintenance, we are just more immature in our thinking, perhaps adding to this sense of perpetual adolescence that seems to cling to women my age.

Is this a result of us having put off those responsibilities of marriage, children, and house till we were much older than our mothers? Whatever the various causes, I sat and reevaluated the slew of hip hugging jeans in my own drawer at home as I watched this mom doing that familiar tug of pulling up jeans too low on their hips. I realized it might be time to put them away for good, relegated to a life of high waisted jeans.

War of the Sexes

2008-01-14T05:19:00.000-08:00

It's everywhere, he versus she, Obama versus Clinton. The country is seeing something unimaginable only ten years ago: the possibility of either a woman or Black President. With all the world abuzz about that tearful moment, turning the tide for Clinton as her sisters rallied around her, I happened to catch a movie that was a feminist war cry, only a few decades ago--9 to 5. This movie, seen in the year 2007, is quaint, kitschy, and yet, the anger, outrage expressed by the three women is still relevant today. Yes, not all secretarial pools (they don't even exist, and if they do they would be referred to as the assistant's lounge) are gender specific. Right? Well, one would hope.

9 to 5 is of its time, when feminism was about competing with men, or rather, women being like men. This definition of being like men was displayed in women dressing like men, carrying brief cases, and casting off any of the trappings of femininity, as to not appear like a woman. I am of the generation, raised on movies like "Working Girl" where women still strive for that office, but falls in love along the way, so that we get our Prince Charming and the corner office. What's striking in comparing these two mvies is how much more progressive 9 to 5 was in its feminist politics. The males in this movie is ultimately expendable. Only one character is married, but the husband is rarely seen. The other two are divorced, single, trying to create a life for themselves after marriages had come to an end. It's the absence of men in their lives, other than the boss, that is striking. Men still rule their world, obviously, but they don't figure in quite a dominant thematic manner as in "Working Girl."

If one were to do a true feminist critique of these two movies, some ideas would be apparent--the slide backwards in philosophy of feminism, as a whole. The days when Betty Friedan was preaching to her sisters is truly a distant hum. The world has changed, most dramatically in gender roles and its definitions. And in its wake, the world is mixed up, messier, and more complicated. See, we, women can now have it all, the world likes to remind us. Except the rules of the game haven't really changed. Instead of previous role definitions, we are now expected to be income earners, mothers, wives, and still make a pot roast on Sundays. If you lack in any of these areas, well, the world can be quite unkind. And not to indict my own sex, but women are the least empathetic toward their own. We are the first to judge our peers for whatever lapses they may face in their quest for perfect womanhood.

This idea of perfection, something that is the new disease of this new millennium, manifests in all the wrong ways. I relish this political season. It will become more divisive as he versus she becomes a war cry. They will all talk about change, but really, we all know how little the world has changed since the days when three women, secretaries, felt they had to lock up their male boss in order to make changes to their world.

Marriage--Why Do We All Do It?

2008-01-11T04:42:00.000-08:00

Why do so many women dream about, wish for, pray for, and resort to all sorts of tactics to get themselves trapped? Why do they? Why is the myth of marriage so powerful to create industries for singles to find their ideal mate, create the perfect wedding, award more degrees for marriage counselors, and ultimately, more attorneys for those nasty divorces when the sheen of the first month wears off?

I don't understand why so many of us find ourselves trapped, in a constant of compromise with another person and yourself--for what?

If I were to do it all again, I would never, ever get married. Period. It is not for me, I know with certainty each day. It's not so much about the person I'm married to, but just the institution itself. Women, in my opinion, lose out on all fronts of this arrangement. Yes, some of us can anesthetize ourselves with shopping for unnecessary, frivolous things. Others can seek solace, permanently, on a therapist's couch. Others use anti-depressants. Others just drink. But all of us seek out some resolve for the wearying constant that is married life.

Part of the blame should be directed toward the individuals involved in the misery of married life, and in my life, my husband, who exemplifies all the selfishness of most men. I think our culture has a way of raising boys to become incompetent emotional beings, particularly for the demands of modern married life where everything has to be negotiated. Remember we are the generation raised on "talking it out," an impossibility when boys, later men, aren't well versed in parsing out their emotional life into words, always words.

So, why do it? That is what I ask myself each and every day. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving permanently. That is, unfortunately, on most days. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Or perhaps not. I'm sure our marriage will be a ticking clock, an expiration date just around the corner.

Golden Globes, No More

2008-01-10T04:38:00.000-08:00

LA, I'm sure, must be in a tizzy about the latest fall out from the writers' strike--the cancellation of the star-studded, glitzy, self-congratulatory, fashion show, freak show, known as the Golden Globes. This award show, created by Dick Clark, is a booze-filled night where the winners can, sometimes, give surprisingly candid speeches. But really, it's the night that kicks off a three-month long extravaganza, the culmination of which ends up with people holding parties to see the Red Carpet stroll of actors at the Academy Awards. This night is the unofficial holiday for the city of Angels.

But with the cancellation of the Golden Globes, and potentially, the Oscars, one forgets how many industries are hurt by such a calamity. The trickle down effect (such an 80's phrase) on the city's economy is huge, and not really reported. Yes, the Wall Street Journal did a woeful assessment of all the designers, whose wares will not be seen draped or strapped into the nearly perfect bodies of Angela Jolie, Cate Blanchett, and others. But think about the vast numbers of people, those responsible, for the Goddess or God-like images that are splashed across the television screens around the world, later recycled in the pages of half a dozen magazines, and soon replicated by the likes of AB Schwartz for teenag girls to buy for their upcoming proms.

Not only are designers the ones suffering. There are the stylists, whose jobs of procuring the perfect gowns for their celebrity clients, must now be put on hold indefinitely. What about the hairstylists? The jewelers? The nail salons? The caterers? The limousine companies? The alterations people? The valets? The grunts who put up the stadium seats outside the halls? The hotels? The restaurants? The liquor stores? The trainers? The colonics specialists? The facialists? The body waxers? The make up artists? The photographers? Joan Rivers and her annoying daughter? The E Channel? The musicians? The dancers? The tanning salons? The dry cleaners? Those people whose job it is to put together those ridiculously exorbitant swag bags together? Wolfgang Puck?

Can you see how this non event for the rest of the country is such a humongous deal in LA? Yes, the primaries are going on, but really, THE GOLDEN GLOBES HAVE BEEN CANCELED!!!!! I'm sure every coffee shop, every deli, every restaurant in Beverly Hills is all abuzz about this. And rightfully so once we realize what a huge industry these award shows have become for the entire city's economy, particularly the blocks west of Doheny Drive.

But that is the cost of a one industry town, which LA is, for better or worse. Hollywood, although not the driver of the economy in the city, has the perception of being the main industry. Therefore, any blips such as the cancellation of an awards show will feel cataclysmic for the entire city, especially in Beverly Hills.

It will be interesting to watch the Academy Awards, if they occur, from a distance. It will, more than likely, be put into the proper context. It will be something we may, or may not, watch, but not an event that we have to participate. I doubt we will go to any party where we will bet on the winners or losers. Again, I somehow don't see that happening here. I'm sure we will be nostalgic about how this non-event is such a big deal there. But that may not happen this year since they may not occur at all. God Forbid for Los Angeles.

New Yorkers are Rude--Fuggedit

2008-01-09T04:46:00.000-08:00

There is that long held belief that New Yorkers are rude, pushy, and mean. Or that's what the rest of the country believes about the 8 million inhabitants, and the millions more who come into the city to work (we should note most of these people come from New Jersey, Connecticut, and even Pennsylvania).

So, here's what I've noticed about New Yorkers, thus far. They are fast walkers, a necessity here. They have no problems stepping around you if you are dawdling in the middle of a sidewalk. But they rarely do so muttering profanities under their breath. Actually if they were so incensed they would most likely just cuss you out, right there in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But that is something I've yet to see, or worse be the recipient.

You would think so many people squeezed in together would make tempers brittle, but that is far from the case. On an given day, on a crowded subway car, or bus, I will witness a person giving up their seat to an elderly person or a mother with a young child. These unexpected acts of generosity and good manners reaffirms my belief that people here are not rude, pushy, or mean. I've been the recipient of such generosity whenever I've gotten on a bus or subway with my son where a young man, young woman, or just man, or woman, have gladly given up their seat for us. I've also been aided, unasked I might add, by a passerby about which subway to take to get me home. This gentleman was not creepy, certainly not using this opportunity to ask me for a date, but was helping out a confused damsel.

Why, then, have New Yorkers suffered such labels? It does make you think about it since I'd just left a city full of sun shine and full of some of the rudest, self-involved people I'd ever encountered. It was as if the perpetual sunshine made all of their home training, if they'd had any, disappear along with most of their brain cells. I've seen grown men, sitting, or rather, lounging at the outdoor tables of any number of cafes, watching a woman struggling with the door as she tried to squeeze herself and her stroller through. It was more of a rarity for one of them to get up to open the door for the woman, but rather the norm that they would, collectively, sit and watch as if they were watching television. I've written enough about the craziness of LA drivers, how so many of them use their cars as weapons, or rather shields as they vent their frustrations out on the rest of the drivers on the road. LA is the city known for people shooting at another driver in a fit of 'road rage.' Isn't that where this term came from, this land of sunshine and supposedly laid back Angelenos?

I attribute this disconnection with propriety, good manners, consideration for others to the simple fact that life is constantly filtered through the windshield of a car. If you deal with people in the most limited, and in most cases, synthetic manner then you are apt to live in a bubble where anyone else's consideration is never considered. Angelenos can drive past the many homeless, an easy thing to do if your car radio is blaring the newest Radio Head song, allowing you to pretend that the body buried under a sleeping bag on the sidewalk is of no consequence to your immediate world.

New York, a city where you are constantly juggling yourself against the multitude of citizenry, makes it difficult for you to filter the world, in any manner. You are always forced to consider how your action, or inaction, affects someone else, even if most are strangers. Each time you walk past a homeless person asking for a quarter, or better yet, a dollar, you are forced to consider so many personal, and public questions. And no, you don't hand over a quarter to everyone that asks. But this doesn't mean you don't think about it.

I also think one's constant contact with the general public forces you to behave humanely. Look, if you were a young guy, sitting there as an old person with a walker stood by your chair, I am certain most around this young man would say, or do something to point out his lack of consideration. It is the pressure of the collective that, in the end, makes all of us just a bit nicer, just a bit more considerate, just a bit less aggressive.

A life, or rather, a city that is always lived behind gates takes this pressure off of the individual, giving you a false sense of privacy--something that can be abused. That is the strangest thing of all, this city of 8 million, can, on most days, make you think about your anonymity, your face just one of many. Yet, the sense of privacy that most in Los Angeles feels is their God-given right, is not something we can assume as a way of life here. No, we are always forced to deal with all of humanity: the good, the bad, the fragile, the hopeful, the beautiful, the ugly, the helpless, the frightening, the weak, the mentally ill, the young, the old, all of it, day in and day out. And perhaps that is what debunks the myth about New Yorkers since each of us can see something of our own fragility, humanity, in the face of someone else, thereby propelling you to act as you would hope someone would act toward you. Whatever the case, New Yorkers certainly do not earn the rudest people on the planet moniker. No, I would say some other town or city may deserve that stereotype.

Death of the Shopping Mall

2008-01-08T08:10:00.000-08:00

I was of the generation that grew up inside a shopping mall. This enclosed building was Mecca for a suburban teenager. The first mall was built in the late 70's in my Philadelphia suburban town, the new playground for me and my friends. The arcade and pizza shop was where we would congregate on Saturdays. Gaggles of girls would stroll up and down, gossiping, browsing, and trying to get the attention of their male counterparts, also strolling in packs. Orange Julius was as familiar as the Champs Elysee bakery where my mom would buy my croissants. This mall would soon be eclipsed by the newer version in another town where trendier stores like Benetton would draw throngs of suburban teens.

It seems this staple of our culture is facing a slow death all across the country. This phenomenon that had completely reshaped our culture in terms of how, and where, we consume is now becoming as obsolete as the plastic furniture covers, a staple of 70's homes.

This American phenomenon was created by Victor Gruen, a Jewish bohemian. He started designing shops for fellow immigrants in New York after failing in cabaret theater. By the 40's, department stores were moving to the suburbs. Commissioned to build a shopping center in Southdale in 1956, Gruen threw a roof over the structure and installed an air conditioning system to keep the temperature at a constant 75 degrees--perpetual springtime.

By the 80's the mall was as much a part of American life as Ford trucks. We saw food chains, created for malls, crop up. Can anyone say Panda Express or Cinnabon without immediately conjuring up escalators, canned music, and Victoria's Secret? We saw movies like "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" and "Valley Girl" epitomize mall culture for the generation of mall goers.

By the 90's malls were in dire straits. The problem was in the sheer number of malls cropping up, competing for the same shoppers in their suburban haven. Another problem was the changing face of suburbia itself. The sedate life of subdivisions, soccer moms, and bored kids was evolving as immigrants started to arrive, and in some areas, in droves. The 90's also saw the resurgence of cities drawing hip white suburbanites to move downtown, leaving behind suburban life. So, this planned shopping community, created to keep out diversity, was now doing the exact opposite as communities started to change. It seems the rapid death of malls has spawned a new hobby: amateur shopping-mall history, namely on websites. It is a strange country indeed.

So, what's in store for American shopping culture? Rick Caruso, little known outside Los Angeles, is doing his part to reshape, redefine, the old mall. His creation, which sits on the corner of Fairfax and Third, otherwise known as The Grove, has created a faux-city behind walls where women, mostly white, feel safe and stylish enough to shop to their heart's content. Yes, there is something a bit Vegas like about the whole place, especially the fountain that sprays in tune to various songs like Kool and the Gang's, "Celebration". There is something sinister, even, about this fake city with its strange trolley that runs the length of the place. But this new outdoor shopping mecca with its minuscule green space, which people use as a park, is redefining the way we shop, yet again. Whether the success of the Grove will translate into other suburban towns tearing off the roof on their indoor shopping centers remains to be seen. Really, who in their right mind would walk around in an uncovered building in Minnesota during the winter months?

And even the Grove, during a rainy day, is quite empty as people head to the enclosed safety of the Beverly Center. But perhaps that is more a result of the thin-bloodedness of Angelenos, whose very existence is shattered if a few rain drops fall from the heavens above. Perhaps Minnesotans, quite at home with inclement weather, would happily stuff themselves inside their down jackets to do a bit of shopping. New Yorkers certainly have no trouble shopping in any type of weather. We only need to head down a clogged 5th Avenue, the largest outdoor mall in America, and see how weather really plays no part when people are intent on spending.

Whatever the outcome, the latest casualty of the changing face of American life, mainly in the suburbs, will continue to be felt on all levels. Those who've remained in suburban towns, perhaps their salaries not allowing them to move into cities, will have to face a reality where the Orange Julius will be replaced a Taqueria, or worse, a butcher shop that sells exotic animal parts. It's no surprise that immigration will be the biggest issue during this Presidential election. Global warming be damned! Suburban families are pissed that their towns are a changing.

Again, this country will reinvent how we shop as another 'thing' emerges as the next best thing.

What I Love About New York

2008-01-07T05:46:00.001-08:00

Since I thought about those things I love about Los Angeles, I felt I should do the same for this city, now my home.

1. I love the Union Square Farmer's Market, even on a cold day where you can purchase endless varieties of apples.
2. I love that Trader Joe's and just about any other store will deliver all of your purchases.
3. I love that I can put on a full length fur coat and get on a cross town bus, knowing that not one person on the bus would give me a second glance.
4. I love that I can order a book online from Barnes and Noble, and have it delivered that very afternoon.
5. I love walking down a street, only to discover a cobble-lined street of old carriage houses, all of it reminding you of this city's long history, but also a time when Edith Wharton had lived.
6. I love the sense of anonymity the city affords you.
7. I love that a walk down any street will surely make you think about all of life's absurdities and cruelties, no matter where you are in the city.
8. I love that the bus driver and riders will wait patiently as another wheel chair bound rider gets hoisted up on to the bus, making you realize how fortunate you are to have the ability to walk on and off.
9. I love that you can get into a cab, never knowing what language will be spoken by the driver into his Blue Tooth ear piece.
10. I love that New Yorkers view "eating out" an event, much like attending the opera, going to the museum, or going to see a movie.
11. I love that you will walk into a restaurant on a Saturday night and know every woman will be dressed, not a pair of jeans in sight.
12. I love that sample sales are another subculture of this city.
13. I love being on a subway or bus, noticing how many people are reading books, magazines, or even the Post during their daily commute.
14. I love that every street, no matter where you live, will have a Duane Reade, a Bodegga, a bagel shop, dry cleaners, Dunkin Donuts and a pizza place.
15. I love that you can be jaywalking across a boulevard--a right of passage for a New Yorker-- and glance up to see a sea of bodies doing the same.
16. I love that women of all socio-economic levels dress themselves as if constantly on parade.
17. I love the fact the city looks even more mysterious and beautiful on the grayest of days.
18. I love looking out our apartment window at dusk, noticing all the other lit windows, reminding you that you are hardly alone.
19. I love playing tennis under a strange looking dome underneath the 59th Street Bridge.
20. I love that a walk to a bus or subway may mean a slight sprint to reach the vehicle in question, even in four inch heels.
21. And I love, more than anything, just walking, taking in all of the city, the people, the stores, the sights, the smells of Gyro cars, and just knowing that this is where I was meant to live.

What I Love and Miss About Los Angeles

2008-01-03T16:08:00.000-08:00

It seems impossible that I would miss anything about Los Angeles, but there you have it. You need some time away, some distance, to be able to gain a perspective about a place that had seemed the cause of so much of your unhappiness. I've compiled a list of sorts to describe what it is about Los Angeles I do love.

1. I love that the sun, which seems to shine every day, glints off of every surface, casting a light of indescribable beauty.

2. I love the time spent alone in the car, listening to NPR.

3. I love the palm-tree-lined boulevard of Santa Monica Boulevard, heading into Beverly Hills, which seems the epitome of the California Dream.

4. I love wearing a dress with bare legs in December, January, well, all year long.

5. I love driving past a Starbucks or Coffee Bean, noticing the hordes of people sitting outside.

6. I love driving the length of Sunset Boulevard from the PCH to downtown, all of the city's economic landscape on display as you make your way past gated mansions, West Hollywood, Hollywood, Silverlake, and finally downtown.

7. I love the immense Korea Town that stretches as far north as Santa Monica Boulevard and as far south as Pico, and from Western to Vermont, where English is rarely spoken, all the store signs in Korean.

8. I love the Korean spas where Russian women, Korean women, American women, lounge around the tub naked.

9. I love the Los Angeles coffee shops that offers an opportunity for people gazing and the leisurely sip of a Latte.

10. I love the spectacle of the Oscar Awards--an unofficial holiday for the city.

11. I love the melange of architecture on any given street.

12. I love the sound of the sprinklers turning on, signaling the start of the day.

13. I love being able to purchase a large bag of oranges or a box of strawberries while waiting for a light to turn green.

14. I love the ArcLight Theater where you can call ahead to reserve, not only tickets, but your seats.

15. I love the diagonal crossing signs for pedestrians in Beverly Hills.

16. I love Crustacean Restaurant's food, but more importantly, walking over a Koi pond floor.

17. I love that roses can bloom well into November.

18. I love the hummingbirds that danced from flower to flower in our garden.

19. I love the black crows that would swoop in our cul de sac.

20. I love that coyotes can come down from the hillside, reminding you nature's door is so near.

21. I love that you can arrive at a party, knowing every other person will work in the 'business.'

22. I love that writers on strike drop their kids off at the same school as the producers, network executives, and heads of studios.

23. I love that Neiman's has a bar in the men's department, so that you can sip a martini after a strenuous day of shopping.

24. I love the Peninsula Hotel's high tea where women can pretend to be ladies from a different era as teas are sipped, scones are eaten, and the harpist plays.

25. I love the patrons of Cafe Roma, where old Hollywood, including the governor, holds court, reliving a hey day long past.

26. I love that women, even those who are brunette, come to LA to become blonds, proving this city is the place of reinvention.

27. I love the Hollywood Bowl on a warm summer's night.

28. I love the Getty Museum, which is more about the space than the art work on display.

29. I love seeing the entirety of the city below from a Hillside home.

30. I love that Larchmont Village feels more like a Midwestern town than a part of Los Angeles.

31. I love Yuca's taco stand on Hillhurst Boulevard, proving the point that a place run by an old Mexican woman and her daughter can win a James Beard award for excellence.

32. I love Little Tokyo's Village where you can get cheap sushi, shiatsu massage, and the most perfect mochi ice cream.

33. I love the mayor of Hollywood, Johnny Grant, who is one of the best promoters of his little domain.

34. I love the skaters, who congregate down on Venice Beach, to perform as music blares out of large boom boxes.

35. I love that Santa Monica feels like a separate state.

36. And I love that all of this world can be processed from behind the safety of a car windshield, proving that LA is truly a city of the new millennium.

24.

A New Year--Freezing Temperatures

2008-01-03T04:55:00.000-08:00

You always forget, or one tries hard to forget, the wind chill when living in climates such as New York or Boston. The temperature's dip to a single digit is alarming enough, but it's the wind chill that can make a grown adult weep while standing outside for a bus. Today, the third day of the first month of this new year, is one of those days when a brisk walk anywhere is recommended. Today is also the day of the much discussed, dissected, analyzed, and now much awaited, Iowa Caucuses. This may be the day when we may make history by having either an African-American man or a woman running for the highest office of this land, if not the world.

But instead of watching CNN all day long to see what the analysts will predict as the day's outcome, I find myself thinking about a New Yorker piece I'd read many years ago about a sales woman at the famous Steinway Piano store on 57th. The piece, like any in this magazine, was well written. But this particular story was especially moving in depicting one woman's dreams of a concert career sidelined into the selling of these venerable instruments. The part of this piece that resonated with me the most, and the part that made me weep, was when she called her dying father from the store after hours. After a few attempts at a conversation that didn't involve a great deal of hand wringing about the end being so near, he asked her to play for him. This woman, whose talents, which hadn't been great enough to solo in major concert halls, but good enough to showcase these instruments to potential buyers, sat down and played while her father listened on the other end, most likely lying in a hospital bed. That profile was one I'd thought about, and never forgot, so you can imagine my surprise and delight as I walked down 57th and walked past this very store. Of course I peered inside, noticing the beautiful instruments, but also two women, sitting at desks. I couldn't help but wonder if one of them had been the one who'd given her dying father the gift of music in that deserted music store, so famous for the instruments, but also for those who've played inside.

And in the end, the writer, whose name I never can recall, did his or her job in relating this very human story about thwarted dreams and mortality. That is, ultimately, what good writing should do, isn't it? I think about that every day as I sit, and sometimes sit, for hours with my fingers splayed across the keyboard, struggling with one word that would, or could, convey the whole of the emotional landscape I'm trying to paint. Someday, I will get the courage to go inside that store, trying hard to appear as I'm there, for no other business than, to pick out a piano, all the while wondering if she is the one.

Farewell 2007

2007-12-31T05:46:00.000-08:00

The time has come, the end is fast approaching when we can count 2007 as the present. This day is a strange mix of melancholy, wistfulness, and a sense of anticipation. It is a holiday that I have never really understood. Perhaps, my views are colored by the fact that once the clock strikes at midnight, it also becomes the day I become a year older--A New Year's Baby. I've always lamented my birthday coinciding with such an occasion, synonymous with champagne and a crystal ball dropping. The years I've received combined birthday and Christmas gifts is enough to make one wish for a birthday that coincides with the day of the Black Plague's devastation around the world. I know I will surely receive calls from friends, it is a very easy birthday to remember, their voices hoarse from the previous night's festivities. Aside from the birthday issue, this holiday is one that makes me feel wistful more than anything else. Even the song we're supposed to cap off the occasion singing is a bit maudlin, if you really listen to the lyrics. It is one of those songs that makes me feel teary, no matter, where, or how badly it's being sung.

This year, no different than any other, is again a bit wistful. However, this emotion is not nearly as strong or overpowering as in year's past when this event was marked three hours behind the rest of my family's, and I would awaken to a sun-filled day where floats of flowers and other edible items would parade down Colorado Boulevard. But like years past, it is a time to reflect, to mourn the people or places now far away, and a time to reassess for the upcoming year. This need for everyone to take a moment and to think long and hard, unless you're out at Times Square with all the people who probably frequent cruise ships, is something that should occur daily, but for some cultural reason is only encouraged once a year.

This year we will, including my gourmand son, be heading to Bolo for an early dinner. This request, unfortunately, came from our five year old and not one of the adults. I try not to imagine how much more obnoxiously precocious he will be in a few years time after living here as a New York City kid. I dare not try to picture him wearing Ascots to events, but one never knows when you have an only child. My son has requested we cap off the evening with a rousing Family Dance Night. Yes, we are a strange lot, but hopefully all this exposure to good music will prevent him from listening to any artist coming off of the Disney Channel.

New Year's Resolutions will abound as each news report and the food channel will devote whole segments or shows to healthy eating and losing weight--the new cultural obsession for all Americans. We will not think about the significance of a woman killed halfway around the world where the new year will surely bring about more calamity, the rumble of it just barely audible in the din at Times Square. The passing of such literary giants as Norman Mailer will be reflected upon the pages of Time Magazine as they list those who have left our world during the year of 2007.

I try and not think too hard about all that awaits, personally and professionally, in the upcoming year. I have a massive load of pages to revise, a child to get into a New York City private school, and a permanent home to find. As one ages, our grandeur for our lives take on a more realistic shape, one becoming more philosophical about change, some of it unwelcome. There is just the tiniest hint of apprehension with the anticipation. One hopes family, particularly your aging parents, are healthy, that friends will remain married, their children unmarred by fate that can make God and life seem unbelievably cruel, that your own marriage will continue to grow and change as your bodies do the same, and that it will all end on December 31st much as it had in years past--wistful, melancholy, and anticipatory. Amen for just such a year, indeed.

Cruise Ship

2007-12-27T05:35:00.000-08:00

I am one of those snobs, whose disdain for those hotels on the water, otherwise known as, cruise ships, has me making disparaging remarks about never being stranded on one of those vessels with all of those people. You know the type. True, I did grow up watching "Love Boat," where each new batch of lonely souls arrived on the ship being greeted by perky Julie, the cruise director, and Gopher. But somehow, the idea of traveling, or rather, seeing the world from the limited purview of a ship seemed wholly unappealing, again an assault on my snobbish views about people who experienced the world this way. And yes, I do know such people who travel the world on board a cruise ship. They are, each in their own way, a bit provincial (no matter how much money they have), and one of those people who, if they didn't have as much money, would be shuttling on and off tour buses in far flung destinations. They would be the tourists I held in such disdain when I lived overseas.

So, you can imagine my disbelief as I pulled my overnight suitcase up the gangplank of the newest Gem of the Norwegian Cruise line. I was, along with my husband and new friends, headed for a 12 hour cruise around the New York harbor, a glorified booze cruise for adults being hosted by American Express. The evening was sold as a dining experience for the gourmand since some of the hottest chefs in New York would be cooking dinner, all capped off with a performance by John Legend in their theater. And since I and my husband have such strong feelings about cruises in general, we thought this would be the most ideal way to do it since the whole venture was no more than 12 hours.

As I headed toward the Norwegian Cruise Ship greeters, I noticed two Purell dispensers, which we were told to use liberally. Yes, there have been all those strange ship viruses that had run cruises aground, its participants heading to hospitals, some unknown virus taking down an entire floating hotel. After dousing my hands with that strange cool liquid, I found myself surrounded by people of all sizes, mostly large, and colors. I made my way to my cabin, which was the size of a hotel room in Japan. Again, I marveled to find myself here, of all places. We met our friends for cocktails, and then headed up top to see the ship leaving the New York harbor. The view of lights as the ship sailed further away made this strange trip well worth it. The dinner was fine, not as good as I've had at Gramercy Tavern. John Legend gave a heartfelt, condensed version of his show. It was a bit strange seeing him perform in a setting similar to a Las Vegas hotel. Wasn't that the place performers ended up as their name became synonymous with what had once been cool? For someone, whose career, should still be relevant, well, it was odd indeed.

This evening would have been fine, if not for the hordes of people on the ship. I don't consider myself a true misanthrope, but it is experiences much like this that makes me think living among the people is not for me. I had the same feeling when I had to serve on a jury in Los Angeles, a jury that was in no way a 'jury of my peers'. What was most striking about the ship was how much like Vegas it was. There was the sense of time being inconsequential, so much so, that the ship actually promulgated the idea of the watch or clock's irrelevance on board. People, despite the short duration of this trip, partied as if it were 1999. The casino was full, people gambling away the hours, much like I've seen in Las Vegas. The Duty Free shops opened once we got into neutral waters, so that people could browse after dinner for that Rolex, which would now be duty free. Couples lounged in the bar where beds were used instead of chairs, all in their quest to live out a long held Bacchanalian fantasy.

After watching John Legend, my husband and I headed to the disco where they promised an evening of reliving "Saturday Night Fever." Images of John Travolta in that infamous white suit was not far from my mind as I figured the disc jockey would be spinning tunes from that much parodied era. You can imagine my shock when we arrived to find the dance floor empty, a few overgrown adults dancing to familiar songs coming from, not a disc jockey, but a band of performers from Manila. I had noticed the plethora of Filipinos, who worked on board from maids, waiters, to bar tenders. But this band of performers, singing all the old standards from the era of Studio 54, were definitely Filipino. It was as we watched this band perform, "We Are Family," that we had to leave.

Aside from the Filipino staff on board this Norwegian cruise ship, the thing I noticed most was the amount of food available for consumption at all hours of the day. It seemed as if you couldn't walk more than ten steps without hitting another restaurant, hence, the explanation for the numbers of overweight adults. But then, that's a problem prevalent throughout this great land of ours.

After sleeping too little, we packed our overnight bags, and headed to the breakfast buffet (a staple of cruise ships, I've learned). Again, I was struck by the sheer number of breakfast foods available. I could see, if one were inclined to overeat, how tempting it would be to sit there for a few hours, sampling everything from the omelet bar to the waffle station. We disembarked, heading out into a gray New York day, a bit wiser, definitely feeling our 40 years, but definitively clear in our knowledge that a cruise would not be in our future.

International Luncheon

2007-12-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

My son, who'd read and reread Rosemary Wells' "Yoko" book--a cat, named Yoko, who is Japanese takes sushi to school. Kids make fun, prompts teacher to create International Luncheon, sushi is eaten and liked. All's well in this particular school of cats and dogs--was reliving the book's story since he had requested Korean sushi as our contribution to the luncheon. We also added Korean dumplings my mother has made by some Korean woman, she's enslaved in Philadelphia. My mother arrived the day before, such a luxury for us that she could hop on a train and land in Penn Station, just a mere hour or so later. This trip was to coincide with her spending the night with our son, allowing my husband and me a night away.

The day of the luncheon arrived with much anticipation for my son. My mother and I pan-fried the dumplings, rolled the Korean sushi, and carted everything to school in large foil roasting pans. There were two Jewish dishes, a few Eastern European dishes, a West Indian curry, and of course, the requisite Irish dish of boiled beef. Someone, who could claim an Italian heritage, brought in pizza, which got devoured by all the kids, of course. My son was happy and proud to have his Korean grandmother there, all bedecked in her fur, meeting his classmates' parents. We sampled a few of the dishes, noticing the dumplings were disappearing rapidly, the sushi almost nearly all gone.

My son ran over with the classroom copy of the "Yoko" book. I had already connected why he was so excited about this luncheon, but the confirmation was all the more poignant. This day, the last before Christmas, is busy with people standing on every corner with a suitcase next to their feet, their arm raised desperately hoping to hail a cab to the airport to Penn Station, all heading home for the holiday. The roadways are especially congested, making getting from one part of the city to the other a challenge. We, so delirious to be here, aren't grousing about any of this yet. I'm sure that will come in a year or two when we start whining like every other New Yorker about those pesky tourists, making our daily lives extra difficult. Never mind that our economy lives off of the tourists.

It's nearly impossible to imagine our lives a year ago, exiled in LA, so desperately helpless about how we'd gotten ourselves stuck there, of all places. Or, that was the way I was feeling. If nine months can bring about such radical changes, well, it does give one pause about what could be around the next corner--hopefully, all, or at least some of it more positive than not.

White Trash Woes

2007-12-20T05:06:00.000-08:00

I've held myself back from commenting on Brittany Spears, and the likes of the other limited talent but overexposed posse of young women, littered on the pages of enough magazines to have spawned a whole new industry or two. But the recent revelation of her 16 year old sister that she, too, is pregnant is beyond belief. The best part of this is that their mother, that woman whose parenting skills warrant dissection of a different sort, had written a book about just that--parenting. Amazing, isn't it? I find it so. It is just another example of the disintegration of so much that is wrong in our culture of voyeurism and exploitation.

First, let me say, I find Brittany's travails more tragic than funny or amusing. She could, in a dozen years or so, end up the way of a much more talented, but equally troubled mega star, Michael Jackson. Now, whether she ends up on the headlines again for child molestation is not the question. But simply that her troubled life, which didn't take many years to unravel compared to Jackson's demise, is an indication of the hyper-speed with which we are living our lives. Compare Jackson's illustrious career before the downfall--he'd been part of a mega successful family group, he then went on to record two chart topping albums. It was a little after his hair catching on fire that his descent started. Despite all the personal woes, most of which can be attributed to his parents and poor choices, his talent can't be questioned.

Brittany, on the other hand, is a product of today's music industry that is all about packaging pretty faces with limited voices. Her rise was meteoric before the media turned on her, just as she was acting out the way most adolescents do, albeit most of our shenanigans are done privately. So, who's to blame for all the mess that is her troubled, sad, disjointed life? Well, her parents would be a good place to start. And then the industry that exploited her while making gobs of money off of her, and has now kicked to the curb, as they say. Then there is just the young woman, who has to take a large portion of her blame.

It is a sad day when her sister is a role model for other young girls. It's amazing that a show, Hannah Montana, can create a frenzy where parents are buying scalped tickets for hundreds of dollars. Hopefully, the young woman behind this newest phenomenon won't go the way of her predecessor, who is seen all over LA, driving around aimlessly filling her time shopping and giving chase to the hounds of media. But I wouldn't hold my breath. I guess the next question that begs to be asked is what's to become of the progeny of these young women? Chapter Three--Brittany's boys are seen crashing cars, drunk, on drugs, in and out of rehab, spending money they no longer have, trying to sell themselves to this same industry so that they become known as more than Brittany Spear's lost boys.

Voices From Afar

2007-12-18T04:52:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how this happened, but the Luddite in me is all but gone. It seems I'm a techno geek of the worst variety--you know the type, the ones who are all hooked up to Blackberry, Outlook, computers and gadgets synching as if by magic, so a small glich means absolute catastrophe.

Most of you know what a musicphile I am, added to the list of 'philes' next to my name. And that this, long held obsession is all about my Ipod. Now the sad part of this tale is how much an ignoramus I am about technology in general. One small click, which I'm never too timid to make, and somehow I've erased all sorts of information that took hours to amass and document. I've done this once to my Outlook, much to my Computer Person's amazement. He insisted it was impossible to lose all that info, therefore he would search my hard drive for all of it, and of course I had, somehow, zapped it all away. This is a terrible thing for a person, whose entire work is loaded on to one of these machines. And in truth, on a scale of one to ten, my knowledge of the computer is probably about a 7.1, just above average, but hardly savvy enough to fix whatever mess I've created.

What does this mean? It means I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to tech people, mostly men, although when I was on Verizon in LA, most of the tech people were in Bangladesh and a fair number were women.

After receiving the newest Ipod Touch for Christmas, I was, of course, trying to plug it into my system and to upload music for my listening pleasure. Well, for whatever reason, I couldn't download the newest Itunes software, something that is supposedly easily accomplished. After several attempts, I called tech support, speaking to a young man, obviously in his late to early thirties. I could tell he was Caucasian, casual in dress, and tall. During a lull as I rebooted my computer, at his advice, I asked where he was, to which he replied New Mexico. He was, what they refer to as level one in tech support since what he advised me to do erased my entire Itunes from my computer. After a minor freak out, I phoned back, shrieking at the next tech person, who appeared older, still male, and Caucasian. He seemed less insouciant, and more conscientious, which led me to believe he was older. He took me through the steps, and realized I would require the assistance of the second level tech person. He patched me through to another man, older than his last predecessor and still Caucasian. This man, whose name was Don or Dave, was the voice of reason, so reassuring from so far away. He was infinitely patient as I went through the steps he asked, never making me feel stupid when I admitted I had no idea what he was saying.

Of course he was the one who fixed the problem, this man who was in Austin, Texas. During our brief interchange as the computer booted up, and during a lull, we revealed minor details about our lives. I learned he lived in Austin, had a son, and that he worked for Apple as a tech voice on the ends of so many calls like mine. I also learned about his wish for more adventure, perhaps living in a place like New York, which may feel more alive to him than the suburban life he must lead in Austin. Perhaps it's my curiosity about people, but it never fails that these faceless voices on the other end of each of these calls ends up taking on a two dimensional feel as I ask probing questions, in my need to place these people on to some geographical map, of sorts. That is the thing about this life where a caller so many miles away can fix your machine half way across the world, in some cases, and in yesterday's half away across this vast country of ours--this need to be able to place a voice to some geographical area. After laughing about my own technological idiocy, we laughed and then had to say our 'good-byes.' There was just the slightest catch on his end as he wished me well and a 'happy holiday,' this man, who was patient enough to teach me how to fix my own computer. I felt the slightest twinge as I, too, hung up with this stranger. In the end, this weird intimacy I'd just shared with this stranger seemed the summation of our world where all of this technology has brought together such disparate lives. My Ipod Touch is up and running, ready for me to start fiddling around with what music can be loaded.

The Great American Bake Off

2007-12-17T04:40:00.001-08:00

This weekend was the Great American Bake Off in our house, otherwise known as Cookie Hell. I attempted in my small, galley-size kitchen to replicate the pandemonium that ensued for days on end in Los Angeles. As I measured cup after cup of flour, whipped enough butter to single-handedly raise anyone's cholesterol score by a few hundred points, and measured out copious amounts of granulated sugar, I became nostalgic about Los Angeles for the very first time since arriving in the city. Of course when I say this, I mean I became nostalgic about my neighbors, our charming, drafty house, and especially, my son's Tia, not the city at large. Performing the rituals of this holiday, decorating, baking, wrapping gifts, made the absences of those individuals who'd been a part of our lives for so many years so acute. Our Tia, who grew to delight in these tradition as much as I did, had been my stalwart right-hand woman in most of these endeavors, except the baking. So, going through these acts, albeit on a minor, scaled down version has made me miss her so very much.

As sugary confection after another came out of the oven, I did as I'd always done, placing them on cooling racks until they were cool enough to be stored into large storage bins. I thought about all the Christmases where these treats would be bagged, gift cards attached, all distributed by our son and his Tia as they made their way down our street. I learned from more than one neighbor that these bags of home made goodies had become and expectation for them during this season of giving and receiving. I suppose that is what brought on this sentimental nostalgia as I sifted flour and measured out baking soda, that this ritual would not be taken up by anyone else, that each of these neighbors, some who live alone, will feel the lack of these bags more than I could ever know.

My son and I attempted the same tradition as we walked up and down our apartment building's hallway, distributing these delicacies to neighbors, who seemed taken aback by such a sign of neighborliness.

This season has been such a strange mix of delight and wistfulness. Giddiness hits me as I walk around the city, going into stores as go about the business of shopping for family and friends. At the same time, the wistfulness of missing those that had been such a fabric of my time in Los Angeles presses down upon my chest, serving as a reminder of what had to be lost in order for what we've gained. Aha, c'est la vie!

I know, in the end, I continue these traditions as much for my son as for anyone else. It will, hopefully, be for him the touchstones of what this holiday season meant, and will continue to mean to him as he goes on with his life, creating new traditions of his own. How does the world benefit, you wonder? Well, for one, the dairy industry should be grateful that so many pounds of their precious commodity gets purchased and used during this season. Gyms should be eternally blissed since membership rates should jump within the new year after the caloric intake of this season--of which the cookies are no small portion. All in all, my little 'tradition' of baking and distributing cookies should make many more people, other than those who are the recipients, quite content by my largess.

Holiday Shows

2007-12-14T05:02:00.000-08:00

When you are a parent, it is expected you will sit through interminable performances of your child singing, banging instruments, and in my case, flitting across the stage. And despite my better efforts to avoid these nights, we found ourselves scrunched in between eager parents, sitting on hard chairs, as we were 'entertained' for the next hour.

I know, I know. Most parents love this stuff, and think these evenings are the culmination of all the arduous work in parenting their kid(s). My excitement, much more muted than is politically correct, was more a result of my son's excitement about performing the three songs his class had been practicing for the last month. And since this is a public school, even thought most of the families are white, Irish, and Christian, there were none of the traditional Christmas songs that I remember singing when I was his age. Let me just say how much I despise this watering down of the holidays to insure no one religious group gets offended. Who are we kidding? And why discount the religious significance of Christmas that goes beyond garland, Christmas trees, and the massive consumerism that results in non-Christian families putting up trees and exchanging gifts on this day?

My son, after much negotiation, allowed me to put him in tie and jacket, but only after I gelled his hair into spikes. He expressed his anxiousness about singing in front of so many people--all the usual expected build up to the night.

The show was ear-splitting, the song selections strange, none of them referring to this holiday season. I'm convinced the music teacher must drink heavily every day to endure eight hours of this endless cacophony. The best part, of course, is the one or two 'odd' kids, whose antics on stage keep me entertained. There is always some strange kid, whose tics, outsize personalities take all of my attention. And last night was no exception. The strange kid was a boy, a plump bespectacled boy, whose carefree performance (as in acting out the songs and doing a little robot dance in between) stole the show each time he was on the stage, much to my sheer delight. Yes, I'm one of those who laughs out loud and makes declarations like, 'he's hilarious,' with no regard for the possibility that his parents might be sitting next to us, or worse, in front of us.

The evening, thankfully, came to an end after a hair-splitting finale. My son, delighted to have performed in his first Christmas evening show, chattered away during the short walk home. I know I'm supposed to enjoy these nights since they will, too soon, come to an end. Or rather, his exuberance and delight that his parents were there, will come to an end. I'm sure in a few years, my ringing laughter will be the source of his embarrassment, so that our walk home will be sullen and quiet. Ah, the things to which we can look forward to.

Bah Humbug

2007-12-13T07:19:00.000-08:00

This holiday season careened toward us too rapidly, making it impossible for me to comprehend it's here, yet, again. Perhaps it is the life altering changes we've made in our family, but I am five steps behind, it feels, in all the preparations for this season. The pressure is even more intense since I am juggling working, desperately attempting to stay on schedule, and taking care of my son--full time. My mind is on such overload it will only be a matter of time before I leave the house forgetting to brush my teeth, or worse, forgetting to pick my son up. This happened once before in grad school, not forgetting to pick up my son, but leaving the house without brushing my teeth. It was one of those 'uh-oh' moments when a vacation is seriously recommended.

In the midst of all this stress, a package arrived yesterday from one of my writer friends. I couldn't imagine what she would be sending me since we've never exchanged gifts of any kind. Our relationship's boundaries are firmly defined to the internet and the yearly retreat we all take together. After ripping open the thick envelope, I was stunned to discover an antique cook book, one of those regional books put together by church groups, that I love and collect. Her note said she'd found this in a second hand book store, and thought of me. It was one of those thoughtful gestures that will linger in my mind for months. And it is a gesture that is rare, and seems to become rarer in our world.

I'd always said your friends teach you how to be a friend to others. And one hopes in a lifetime you've had enough such teachers. I'm grateful for those that I can call my friend. Even during this short time here, I've made a friend, who will phone me from a dive shop, putting aside the remaining wet suits in the shop, insuring I get the right one for my son. Now, sitting so many miles away from those I'd long considered 'friends,' the tenuousness of all relationships becomes more apparent.

As we brace for snow, I am tucked inside, hard at work, grateful to be able to work. The work day will end with a cup of tea and my new cookbook in hand as scour recipes that reveal a history of the region the book comes from. It will be a perfect end to a hard day.

Ghettos Behind Gates

2007-12-11T14:12:00.000-08:00

The writers' strike is slowly affecting most Americans' television watching. The news reports very few shows have many episodes left to air, which can only mean more of the nonsense that proliferates the airwaves--reality television. One of shows I find myself watching in horror and utter disbelief is "The Real Housewives of Orange Country," a show that follows a group of forty-something, Botoxed, silicone-enhanced, bleached blonds as moms, real estate agents, and BIMBOS. There are so many shows that mirror the debasement of our culture, but this one is all the more disturbing because they are women, who are, supposedly, raising kids--the future generation.

What's fascinating to note, once you've watched enough episodes, something I found myself doing during Bravo's marathon last night, is how all of their "money" is made by selling something. Whether it is real estate, insurance, cars, or worse, themselves, they are all hawking a commodity. The show's purpose, I assume, is to highlight the life of privilege that these women live. But somehow behind the facade of shiny, fancy, expensive cars, and the horrific McMansion subdivision that is the center of their universe, their lives appear small, shallow, and a step above middle America's mall-shopping, chain restaurant eating, and endless turnstile life of gluttonous behavior and endless dieting. Each restaurant scene shows, yet, another restaurant that is essentially a chain restaurant where the size of the portion is more important than quality.

All of these superficial judgments about their lifestyle is nothing compared to their roles as mothers to their troubled, troubled, out of work, barely in school kids. A few of their progenies turned 21, which meant these women felt it appropriate to take their kids out to nightclubs, downing shots to show their children they are still 'with it'. It does make one question the state of our country when you watch these barely intelligible kids and their mothers on television acting more than a fool.

The other thing that is shocking is the profligate use, or rather, misuse of grammar by each of these morons. It goes beyond split infinitives. Someone should clearly give them a thorough lesson on the use of subjective and objective pronouns. Really, if you closed your eyes and simply listened, they sound no more educated than the stereotype of a 'ghetto' kid, who delights in the use of Ebonics. The difference is the ghetto, in this instance, is behind gates in Orange County. There are cab drivers in New York city from places like Nigeria, Trinindad, or Dominican Republic, whose English use is more proper and articulate. I'm sure it is shows like this that give fodder for the extremists in the world, the ones ranting about the moral lapses of this great nation.

I can only imagine what the networks will come up with to fill all those hours in the day since writers on both coasts are busy walking up and down blocks holding their placards. You would think the dearth of quality shows, always questionable even when writers aren't on strike, would propel to read more, spend time with their kids, or take up other meaningful hobbies like crochet. I'm sure once this season's "Biggest Loser" reveals another obese person (there are so many of them, the statistic say) to be booted off the show, leaving the 'champion,' we will turn into a show about the fastest pie eater in the country. And we learn each day just how big it is, this country.

School Skirmishes

2007-12-11T04:54:00.000-08:00

As a parent, you find yourself having to advocate on behalf of your child at all times, particularly in the public schools. And we are no different than any other parent, who work over time as parents. My son's recent school project has raised many concerns for us as a family, all of which has ended in a letter being written to his teacher. My son, who is a mere 5 years old, brings home endless notes from his teacher, it seems every day. I knew his class was working on a family project, the culmination of which would be an international luncheon. The international luncheon part is hilarious since his class is, for whatever reason, predominantly Irish-American. I know this has to do with the fact that the previous owners of this mammoth real estate didn't allow blacks to rent in their apartment buildings. And as my son noted, there are no Korean students in his class, unlike his preschool in LA, which was situated smack dab in the middle of the largest Korea community outside of Seoul, Korea.

A sheet was sent for us fill out with prosaic questions like: Where are you mother's family and father's family from? I, of course, filled in Korea for me and North Carolina for my husband since that is where his family is from. The teacher took me aside to ask what country my husband's family origins trace back to. Hmmm. It took me but a minute to respond his family were slaves. Of course she was flustered by my direct response. The urgency to know the origin of country for the kids' maternal and paternal family was a result of the flags the kids would make to correspond with whatever country their ancestors traced back to. She said she understood the sensitivity of slavery, a topic we have yet to discuss with our child. But she pressed the point in us identifying a region or, more specifically, a country in Africa where my husband's family could be traced. This is the point where I wanted to deck her, not only for her doggedness, but for her absolute dimwittedness about all of this. The worst part of this discussion was her revelation she'd run into this same problem before with other African-American students. Hmmm...Yes, this is an educated person in charge of teaching young kids.

You can imagine the discussions that ensued in our house. My husband, rightly, declared we should tell her to use the American flag since slaves were largely responsible for building most of the institutions of this country. And if she had a problem with this logic, she should call him at the office so he could make his point. Obviously, this was not an ideal solution for the situation since I'm the one having to deal with her daily. After some research, really just typing in Pan African flag into a search engine, I discovered there is such a flag. Again, why she couldn't do this is beyond me since she's the one who created this particular curriculum. I printed out the information sheet on this flag and attached a letter we wrote to address our concerns this project raised for us, but would certainly raise for others,most notably and ironically, the only true Americans--Native Americans.

My husband always points out that the majority of the country is run by C- students, a most sobering thought if you give thought to this. We know the top job in this country, namely the Presidency, could be attained by those with far less on their academic records. A certain idealism on my part would have hoped teachers would be more worldly and rigorous in their own classrooms. But that's expecting more than is the reality.

The Economist recently had an article about the academic rankings of countries. Finland, it seems, is the most ideal place for one to be uber-educated. The United States didn't even rank in the reading scores--a grim statistic indeed since Bush's "No Child Left Behind," touts its successes. The article pointed out the one stark differences between countries with high scores and those with scores that don't register is how the top scoring countries take only top students as teachers--hardly the reality in this country. We all know this stems from the devaluation of teachers in our culture, a trend that has reached an all-time low. What does this mean for our children? Well, it seems they will be behind many of their international peers in reading, math, and science. What does that translate into for our country's future? It means innovation, those ideas that can spawn entire industries, will occur more often on soil other than the US. It means the dumbing down of our cultural institutions will occur without the citizenry, smart enough, or engaged enough, to take note or to argue for more. It will mean the constant polarization where religious fundamentalism will take place of intellectual curiosity. People, finding their world confusing (and too dumb to understand why) will turn to the "opiate for the masses"--mega churches to answer all the ills of a world where children's futures are just a bit more hopeless than the previous generations'.

It is a grim picture indeed. It's enough to make us want to immigrate to Finland, the only biracial family to ever arrive on their shores.

Rockefeller Center

2007-12-10T07:21:00.001-08:00

My son and I trekked to Rockefeller to meet our friends, who were visiting from Los Angeles. We took in the tree and the throngs of people, all there for the quintessential New York experience. Families posed in front the mammoth tree and gawked at the skaters on the rink below. Fifth Avenue is congested, making the stroll down the glittery street an impossibility. It is enough to make you turn into Grinch. I now understand why most New Yorkers avoid mid town this time of the year.

Every restaurant was full with tourists catching their breath from the strolling down 5th Avenue. This weekend, another whirlwind of seeing friends from Los Angeles, passed in a blur. Again, it seems every other week brings another friend from the West Coast out for a visit. This thread of our past getting woven into our present is making for an interesting tapestry to our days here.

Perhaps the visits will curtail once the harshness of January settles all around us.

Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center

2007-12-07T06:04:00.000-08:00

Last night we went to hear Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center. After all these years to finally hear this jazz ensemble in their natural habitat was beyond cool. No other word can describe the experience. The irony of all this is we were invited by friends from LA, who are in town visiting this weekend. We'd been here all these weeks, but so busy getting our lives set up that such an outing seemed like an extravagance.

The evening ended with drinks at the nearby bar, something we would never have done in LA. Late nights here are as normal as our early morning routines had been in LA. As we were driven home, the city seemed dressed up for a formal occasion. Each lamppost bedecked in garland and lights, store windows gleaming in its holiday get up. Even the cold didn't dampen the entire experience of this evening. What I remember from the night was the encore the group played. The audience, a well-heeled group, clapped and swayed as the band loosened up and really began to swing. It's moments like this when a little pinch is required for me to appreciate how different our life has become in this beautiful, crazy city--now our home.

Foodtv

2007-12-06T04:01:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I'm a Food Network watcher. And have been for a long, long time. As one who watches, not avidly as in every day, but enough to distinguish shows, I've amassed some observations about the 'chefs', or rather, personalities on the shows.

First let me start by stating I'm not a Rachel Ray devotee. I find her cutesy, 'Rachelisms": EVOO, YumO, Sammy, Delish--annoying rather than endearing. I understand why the network found her appealing, and why more than half the nation finds her appealing. She is the average, girl next door, simpleton, who can whip up half hour meals, apparently all the time we have in our days to put a meal on the table from start to finish. My dislike of her stems not only from these annoying personality ticks now part of her schtick, but rather from the fact that none of her dishes look all that delicious. It's like she's incorporated all the ideas of good food for the fast food life. You can see the complete juxtaposition of such a good idea. There are some things that shouldn't be rushed because in the rushing you miss the true elements and beauty of the process of what you create.

Another chef, who is no longer on the network as they move away from chefs to personalities, is Mario Batali, the antithesis of Rachel Ray. For this man, no time is too long to create a delicacy that will be as memorable as that first kiss. His recipes were as complex as the most complex algorithm. And the beauty of it was his absolute ardor for all things culinary. His rotund figure speaks to a life spent satiating those very basic needs to the maximum. One can imagine how much fun he'd be late night with plates of delicacies and bottles of wine.

One of those sad replacements for Batali is a woman named, Sandra Lee. Where does one start with this Barbie doll looking woman? She is part trailer trash, part Stepford wife, and obviously some powerful executive's wife since it's hard to fathom how she got this show. Her only redeeming quality and the only thing I find endlessly amusing about her show is how every show ends with her "Tablescape," and potent cocktails. I wouldn't eat anything coming out of her kitchen even if it was the only food left, but I would certainly drink her hefty cocktails.

Then there's folksy Paula Deen, whose personal story is compelling. Her folksyness is, much like Ray's, bordering on the kitsch since it is such a schtick of what the network has told her they want from her. She seems to become more Southern, more bellicose, bigger in personality with more air time. Even her sons now have a show of their own where they drive around the country looking for food, of course.

The one chef, whose personality is nearly nonexistent, is the Jewish Housewife with Good Taste, The Barefoot Contessa. This one woman has done more to demolish the stereotype that Jewish women can't cook but make excellent reservations. This woman cooks. And with lots of butter. It is as if she never really got over Julia Child's eponymous: The Art of French Cooking. But everything she makes looks delicious, and a recipe I would be happy to attempt in my own kitchen. Unlike the other chefs, whose outsize personalities, seem to distract from the fact that they are cooking crap, she is as scintillating as a librarian discussing the Dewey Decimal System.

It is her personal life, those bits of her life revealed once camera lights are turned off, I find fascinating. First, there is the nebbish husband, whose job is far enough away to warrant he stays away Monday through Friday, so that she has endless shows devoted to meals for his return. Hmmm. Then there is the fact she is childless. Again, very interesting. Yes, the reasons why she may not have had children may be something that saddens them both. But it does give me endless speculation about, not only the why, but how come. However, the thing about her life that trumps all these others is the fact she seems to only have gay male friends. Every party for which she is preparing, including a Bridge party, ends with her surrounded by three or four gay men, all of them raising their glasses in a toast. Most straight women have a handful of gay male friends, particularly those women with personalities that border on the drag queen mode--I am one of them. Does this mean, off camera, she's a hard-swigging, foul mouthed, hilarious woman, who keep all of those gay men in stitches? It is a fascinating thought.

It is now the time of year when each chef devotes a show to the holiday meal. Again, all great stuff. I don't know why I find watching these shows endlessly entertaining. I just do. If I need a quiet moment in the day, a time to retreat, I turn on the Food Network to, hoping to catch any one of these new celebrities turning the preparation of food into entertainment. No one, other than the Two Fat Ladies, was, or is as entertaining as the originator--Julia Child. But that's a rather high bar for one to surpass.

We are Japanese

2007-12-05T06:51:00.000-08:00

I don't know how or why this has happened. It seems our country is now Japan. Let me explain for those who are confused by such a ridiculous question. We, my husband, son and I are on the private school interview circuit. Despite the number of private schools when compared to the 8 million population in this city, well, the hustle to get into one of the top schools is as competive as anything I've seen. And this is what I mean about our country is now Japan, a country known for excessive parental pushing of their little tots to get them into the 'right' school. The school can, even at the tender age of five, determine whether the young one will determine his or her socio-economic standing for their entire life in the country of Japan.

For our meritocratic nation, the notion of a school determining one's entire destiny is laughable, but is it so laughable after all? A bachelor's degree, now much more ubiquitous than 20 years ago, takes on significance if attained from a small number of prestigious universities. Therefore, the need to insure your child will get their BA from, not a state university, but one of the elite schools that is known in far flung places as Sudan.

Each time we enter one of these private schools, I am struck by the parents attending to their little one. It is as if we had all be cut from the same cookie cutter--father in suit, mother dressed appropriately, and both attentive over their little one, nudging enough to make sure their child is not relegated to a second tier elementary school, a fate that could determine the outcome of their child's entire academic future. It is all too pressure filled to be believed. And yet, here we are, schlepping our little guy, coaxing him to go off with another Admissions person as we sit and are grilled by another school admissions director.

This vying for the so few spots at the top tier schools is intense, much more than anything we experienced in LA, where the vying felt less about the importance of the education your child would receive than about the social milieu your child would be exposed. Let's face it, most parents in LA, particularly those in the Entertainment business, were more concerned their kids attended the same school as Celebrity X's kid than about the actual curriculum of the school. Here there is a bit of the social jostling, but the emphasis is really about the education your child will receive--the ultimate goal being your child's entrance into Harvard, Yale, or Brown.

Our son, despite his kvetching about these interviews in the beginning, is now an old pro. He goes off happily with the new person, coming back with pictures drawn. I wish I could say we only have a few more left. Sadly, this driven couple, otherwise known as us, had applied to a dozen schools in the city. We are now halfway through with the list. And each time we head off to another school with our son in tow, we mutter to each other about how we had taken on the absurd social practices of a country half way around the world.

Obama--The President?

2007-12-04T04:57:00.000-08:00

Polls, those measuring sticks for people's popularity, say Obama may win Iowa. OK. I'm politically in tune, watch the news--mostly Jim Leher--read The New York Times, sometimes the Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The New York Magazine, and now the Economist. Despite my excessive reading, I'm still at a loss how Iowa, that little state, can determine who will win, not only the party's candidacy, but the Presidential election. It's all a mystery to me. But this recent poll of Obama having gained on Clinton, but now possibly surpassing her, raises some interesting questions about whether this country is more ready for a Black president or a woman.

If someone would have posed that question to me a few years ago, I would have said a woman without question. But that was before a Presidency that has done more damage than thought possible after the devastation of September 11th. People, those that have been polled, although who these people are remains unclear, have said they would pick Obama before Clinton in the Presidential election. And these are the undecideds. It does give us pause to reflect on the President being a black man, even if he is only half.

I'm not sure whether this is signals a country really having made strides where race is concerned or we're just a country beaten down by this administration. I tend to think the latter, but that's my cynicism.

So, we will watch as Iowa gets its moment in the spotlight. And see how this outcome may determine more about the future of this country than any other election. There is no doubt whoever takes the helm has his or her hands full of dismantling the decisions that have done more to damage this country than any another known Presidency. The plethora of problems that plague this country from the economy, foreign policy, the mounting deficit, the devaluation of our currency, domestic woes brought on by the ever widening breach between the classes, and the laughable job we've all done to dismantle our public education, is enough for any smart person to decide to sit out on this election. But since we seem to breed more candidates, even if most are not qualified to run this country, we will surely be in for some nail biting moments during this primary.

Snow Days

2007-12-03T04:43:00.000-08:00

Snow days, when you were a child, meant days spent at home, venturing out to play looking like an overstuffed turkey. Yesterday was our first snow day as a family. My son, who had never seen snow, was happy to stay indoors, not wanting to go out and play in the white dusting. I am afraid he is very much a California child, whose neophyte endurance for the cold makes him lament this move since the weather seems to dictate your life in ways that is blithely inconsequential in Los Angeles.

The snow fell on the ground below. As it fluttered down, past our large living room window, the cotton-like flake, quiet in its descent, settled around us like insulation. The noticeable thing about snow is the quiet. It seems to mute sounds of every day life, sounds that are normally piercing. It is the quiet I missed, and the first thing I noticed. Life slows when your every day surroundings looks dressed as if for a special occasion. Cocooned indoors, you retreat to a coziness that is impossible in our normal-paced world. This white makes the world take stock, giving each of us a reflective moment. It is also the kind of day where a large pot of something simmering on the stove makes the isolation feel less so.

We spent the day decorating our little tree of home made ornaments, each of us missing aspects of our previous life. My heart ached just a bit for my son's Tia, who had been my cohort during the days when our house was adorned for this festive season. Soon enough, our tree was decorated, ready to receive the many wrapped packages that will surely arrive in the days to come. My son, who has miraculously adjusted to life here, played various games, drawing pictures, and finally happy to see a friend, who stopped by for a play date. I know he is at an age where these memories will be the touchstones of his childhood. At day's end, we were satisfied that our first snow storm had come, preparing us for the many months of quiet ahead.

Sample Sales---Full Time Job

2007-11-30T05:03:00.000-08:00

I was told by a good friend, who shares in the joys of shopping, that New York is the mecca of the Sample Sale. Most of us forget the entire American fashion industry is, for the most part, centered in this city, namely between 36th and 30th. It makes sense all these designers would sell their wares at prices just above wholesale before shipping off the leftovers to the discount designer stores where patience is a must when shopping.

Since coming to the city, I've combed the New York Magazine for upcoming sales, imaging all the beautiful items to hang in my teeny closet. Shopping, for most women, is an activity that seems to release a special endorphin of pleasure. I know so few women who claim, notice the use of the word claim, to not enjoy shopping. When they make such a claim, they might mean they don't draw pleasure in shopping for clothes, shoes, bags, but instead spend their time shopping for the many other items that are purchasable. So, to claim they didn't get the same high from an outing to Target as some of us experience at Bergdorf's is a false claim, indeed. The same act of selecting, your imagination heightened as you picture, said, item in your cabinet or on your body, and then handing over credit card, ATM card, or cash for the item is all the same. The same hormones get released whether you've just purchased the perfect Chanel bag or a bunch of household items at Target.

For me, and some of my friends, shopping is more sport than anything else. There is an element of the endurance training involved in becoming an expert shopper. I was, even in LA, a fast, expert shopper. I would trod off to sales, collecting bargains as expertly as finding the shoe of the season, which I would buy at full price. To be an expert shopper is to know when some things will go on sale and when certain items will not, thereby enabling you to make decisions prudently. Lord knows what a crisis it is when you've been eying a pair of perfect sumptuous pumps, only to find your size is gone because you'd deliberated just a tad too long. That, of course, would mean hours spent scouring websites, of which there are so many now, rooting out these perfect shoes.

I thought sales, like Neiman's First Call and Ron Herman's, were top notch. But since being in New York, I've now realized what I'd been missing out on. Sample Sales are a whole subcategory of sales and shopping. I've now attended four such sales, each one more surprising in what was available at discount prices. The perception that such sales are attended only by those who can't afford these designer goods at full prices is what is most delightful about all of this. Each time I arrive at a sale, finding the line of women snaking its way around a city block, I notice how each woman is someone who can afford to go to Barney's or Bergdorf's and hand over their Platinum card for whatever their heart desires. Each woman is perfectly coiffed--a whole blog could be devoted to the art of dressing in this city--from head to toe, a beautiful hand bag slung over their shoulder, their cell phone pressed to their ear as they give their girlfriend a run down of what the scene looks like, all ravenous in their pursuit of a bargain.

Once you enter the sale, you see racks and racks of clothing, no different than what's available at any of the top notch department stores. It is as if you've entered Bergdorf's 5th Floor without the music, the solicitous sales help, the mannequins styled just so. It is just clothes on metal racks. After a few of these sales, I've become expert in figuring out how to maneuver it all to maximize my time.

It is as you lug your findings in the nondescript black plastic bag that the endorphin settles in your brain, shutting out all the realities of sires wailing and the crush of people on the city streets. I've now come to accept it is as much about the hopefulness of each purchase that brings me such pleasure. Each new item is a signal to events attended, dinner dates out with your husband, lunches with girlfriends, an outing the excuse to play dress up, hoping to transform your every day blahness to something memorable. Sometimes for me, making that extra effort makes me reconnect to the woman I was before I became a mother when my life was full of so much expectation. Whatever the reasons, like most of my female peers, the art of getting dressed is something that becomes another aspect of the expression of self. A scarf tied just so can make another woman eye your efforts appreciatively. That is the way of the world of women, something my husband finds baffling. So, onward and upward as more designers put out notices for their sample sales, and I fit in an hour or two out of my work day to stand in line along with all the others, each of us searching for that intangible thing that will transform us into swans. Or simply a great deal on a cashmere sweater or designer handbag.

What is originality?

2007-11-29T04:43:00.000-08:00

I've been listening to Alicia Keyes new album. I've always heard the influence of Prince in her music, someone she does credit as inspiration. On that one song, "If I Ain't Got You," it sounded like she was channeling Prince in every cadence of that song. It sounds more like a Prince than Prince's new music. This is not to acknowledge what a formidable talent she is, when compared to her contemporaries, namely, Brittany Spears.

This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.

This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.

For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.

So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.

Keebler Cookie Elf

2007-11-28T04:40:00.000-08:00

It was usually at this time of the year when I would start buying quantities of butter only fit for the "Two Fat Ladies." See, the Keebler Cookie Factory of Ambrose Avenue would be churning to get ready for the bonanza, otherwise known as the holiday cookie frenzy. I don't know when I started this tradition that had devolved into sheer spectacle. As I bought pounds of butter and quantities of sugar reserved for most restaurateurs, the swell of the holiday spirit would propel me from one humongous warehouse store to another. This spirit of giving would last as I set up my kitchen for endless hours of butter being whipped in my stand mixer. I would, of course, have purchased an endless array of tins, scoured in, yet another, discount store that requires much patience. All this preparation usually took over a week, the break or the 'quiet before the storm,' as the cliche goes.

Once the imminent day arrived, I would wait until my kitchen cleared of kid and husband, getting dressed in sweats and t-shirt. The Ipod, the ever trusty companion, would be cranked on 10, the oven on to 350 degrees, butter on the counter for it to be room temperature, and all other accouterments on the ready. I usually started the day by baking an easier cookie like chocolate chip. But since this is me, I would bake five dozen chocolate chip cookies, so that by the time I was finished with this particular kind of cookie, I had enough storage boxes stacked full of cookies to start resembling a Mrs. Field's outpost. I would then move through my repertoire, honed over many years of this madness, baking for a full 8 hours.

The first day was always cheery--this living of some domestic fantasy I must have harbored underneath all that feminist outrage. My son would arrive home happy the house was full of aromas that would always be the stamp of the holiday season. He would be only too happy to sample a cookie or two before eating the takeout Chinese dinner I ordered since cooking a meal in my factory was out of the question. My churlishness and outright antagonism didn't start until about day three of this lunacy. It was usually the last day of baking, or let me say, the last night as I scrambled to finish the last batch of nut balls that my rage about having started this ridiculous tradition started to spill out into my French country kitchen. My husband, thankfully with a sense of humor, would note that the angry elf was now in residence, having replaced the earlier happy elf.

Once the factory was officially closed, every stick of butter used in one recipe or another, I would count the large plastic containers laden with cookies--a number that is too embarrassing to write down for public consumption. All of this hard work, truly inexplicable, would result in the fun part of packaging cookies into the tins for distribution to neighbors and friends, some of whom counted on the arrival of these tins as surely as watching the rerun of "Frosty the Snowman" on ABC.

As I organized our move, I packed enough baking utensils to do a mini-version of the cookie baking bonanza. It is inconceivable for my son that I wouldn't bake for the holidays. I don't know if subconsciously I've done some number insuring he, my son, would forever be looking for some nouveau, postmodern, Martha Stewart in a future spouse. If so, I offer my mea culpa ahead to all the possible candidates--this from the French, Deconstructionist, Marxist, Feminist, and cookie elf.

Recession? Schmession!

2007-11-27T05:39:00.000-08:00

Every financial forecast seems to be more dire than the last. The housing sector is in a free fall, the credit debacle is starting to take on the disastrous proportions of the Titanic sinking, the dollar is now worth less than the Canadian dollar, the market, as in stock, saw a descent in the last few days that echoed the historic crash where men jumped from buildings in this very city, oil--the all so precious commodity--is now at an all time high, consumer spending is down, unemployment on the rise, and it seems the entire entertainment industry is at a standstill with the Writers' strike taking place on both coasts. With such cheery news on every evening broadcast, well, it sure makes me want to go out and spend some money to boost the sagging economy.

The gloom and doom of each financial report is cause for concern. Yet, the effects of this downturn (the euphemism used by the Fed) will surely be noticed slowly. It will not be as dramatic as the stock market crash of the 20's where entire families were forced out on to the streets. But there is no denying that there will be some casualties.

The Economist reports Los Angeles County will, if not already, be in a recession faster than the rest of the country. Since this is the Economist reporting, it was loaded with facts, statistics, and lots of gloom. I don't know why I've gotten hooked on this magazine, but I do find it endlessly fascinating to be reading about the world as told through the purview of the Brits. And not to mention the incredibly articulate, well written editorial responses that start with the salutation of: Sir.

Most of the this news about company profits and the economy on the macro level (all those economic classes have taught me, if not much else, the language of economics) will fail to report on the human casualty. It will not focus on families having to decide between petrol for home and automobiles versus the endless Christmas lists amassed by their children. Or the senior citizens on fixed incomes having to decide between heating or medications. Speculators, who are driving up oil prices, have no ability to see how their profiteering is affecting whole swaths of the population. So, with the holiday season in full stampede, every forecast paints a picture bleaker than the last. Surely, there will be a Dickensian resolution for us all. And a Tiny Tim, who will declare, "and a Merry Christmas for all."

Fasting---Holiday overdone

2007-11-26T05:07:00.000-08:00

This year's holiday was especially fraught with anticipation since it was our first Thanksgiving with my entire extended family in a long, long time. In actuality, it was my husband's first sojourn to my family home. What can one say about the terrible deeds family exact on each other? It is as if blood, or rather, the sharing of blood gives you license to behave in ways that would be unheard of with strangers. This family gathering was, to say the least, highly charged. And since this is my family, that meant lots of wine, probably enough wine to have cleaned out an entire winery.

The emotional toil on my husband and me was overwhelming, which meant we dealt with it by laughing at ourselves, the situation, and my family. The best part of the weekend was my son's first meeting of his half-cousins. So, after so many years, we are now part of my entire family--the dysfunctions, the rivalries, the grudges, and the guilt. It was easier to manage this part of our history when we were so far away. I could ignore I was part of this family that is a bit like the Sopranos in drama and emotionality, if the Korean version. But now that we are here, so close to it all, we are now fully enmeshed. Whether I will regret this move is still to be determined after a few more holiday gatherings where we go out of our way to be as crazy, eccentric, and emotional as a family of mental institution patients.

My son said he had a great time, and wanted to come often to his grandparent's. This declaration more than made up for the emotional baggage adults carry from their past, present, and future. If I can't provide him nothing beyond these family experiences, most of which will surely end up with him spending ample time on a couch, then I've done my job as a mother. Isn't that what life is about? The passing of the torch, so to speak, except the torch is laden, not only with flames of hope, but the pain of each family's secrets and their past?

Travel Day

2007-11-20T04:51:00.000-08:00

After another tour of, yet, another school for next year, I'm headed to Penn Station to hop on an Amtrack train bound for Philadelphia. This year, our first, will be spent at my family's home where the rituals of families torturing one another, all in the name of love, will be begin in earnest tomorrow. I know every family in this country can outdo one another on the chart of dysfunction and family love. My family, I'm afraid, is no better or worse than the rest.

I am relieved to be heading home, or rather, heading away from our apartment for the next three days. It seems our neighbors, who share a wall the entire length of the apartment with us, has somehow managed to stuff four more people into their apartment. Aside from the sheer feat of such a thing, there is the mind numbing noises of kids (theirs) screaming and banging about that is making me long for the suffocating attention and adoration of my parents.

I know each part of the travel will be full of stress as everyone else along the eastern corridor heads to a train station or airport. I'm so grateful to not have to get on an airplane to get somewhere. This was the time of year when we would head to LAX for the five hour flight to DC. This year's shindig at my parents is sure to be filled with Feliniesque moments for my husband. But that is the joy of living so close to your family.

Radio City Music Hall

2007-11-19T05:56:00.000-08:00

We took our son to participate in the New York tradition of seeing the Rockettes' holiday extravaganza. My husband, who had never seen the show, bought tickets as much for our son as for me. My own parents used to take me to see the shows at Radio City Music Hall when I was a child as part of our monthly sojourn to the city from suburban Philadelphia. I have no real memories of the shows themselves, but just the sense of wonder, magic, and awe these trips inspired in me as a young child. So, we shuttled into a cab to take us the short distance to Radio City. The streets are already brimming with tourists and people, flocking to the city for shopping and all these traditions that make New York the real capital of our country.

Our son's cries of awe upon seeing the Christmas tree dangling from the ceiling, bedecked in crystals, was validation enough for us to endure crowds of people from New Jersey, Connecticut, and other far flung places. People posed their kids, dressed in holiday attire, in front of the wooden nutcrackers, hoping for that holiday photo to send as their holiday cards to family and friends. Since this is America, there were kiosks on every level selling Rockette dolls and t-shirts. And a bar for the adults where an eggnog martini arrived with a stirrer that lit up in the dark. On one hand the whole experience was kitsch in its truest form. And were it not for our son, I would have found it all a bit too much.

But they say one must have a child to re-experience life again. And how true that is. Christmas after the age of 16 feels less magical and more a time for families to torture one another, so that each holiday season's arrival is met with a certain dread by all. That is until you have a child. The cynicism and dread are replaced by the more pure emotions of hope, expectation, and magic--all that the holidays are supposed to be if we weren't so tired, cranky, and full of disappointment. Our son found the show magical, even with the incessant questions he asked during the entire hour long production. For me, when Santa made us put on the 3-d glasses to go on his sleigh through New York, my ears welled up. Again, it's hard to believe we are here, not as visitors but as residents.

Both my husband and I have such moments of incredulity as we go about our life here now. We went to see a movie at the Angelika theater in Soho, stopping for a cup of tea before our dinner date with friends. As we sat by the window, nursing the hot drink, each of us admitted how surreal this is, still.

So, we sat and watched this show that is as much propaganda about this holiday as it is about New York city. I held my disbelief and critical theorist hat in check, soaking up our son's bewilderment and awe of this spectacle. After the final 'Joy to the World' we rushed from the theater, trying to dodge the crush of people. We stopped to get a hot pretzel on the street before hailing a cab ride home.

Holidays are upon us

2007-11-16T04:35:00.000-08:00

The holiday season has begun, or so the Today Show reports, since this day is apparently the start of the travel weekend. The city hasn't dressed itself up for its role as the most romantic place to be during the holidays. Rockefeller's humongous tree will be lit next weekend with festivities taking place before the big moment when someone, some celebrity, will switch on the thousands of lights. Lord and Taylor's windows are already a glow, readying itself for a bleak shopping season by all the analyst reports. The retailers are hoping all the Europeans will come to New York for a shopping extravaganza, if only JFK weren't the world's worst airport and delays surely to be one of the worst of the year.

For our family we started a tradition, of sorts, a few years ago with our son. Instead of making our young child put pen to paper, creating a shopping list for Santa, we encouraged him, or he took it upon himself, to take the endless flurry of catalogs from toy companies and circle items that took his fancy. When he was three, the circles were challenging enough since his fine motor skills were in the nascent stage. But today, well, this has become a whole new endeavor for him.

They say kids adopt the behavior of their parents, whether consciously or unconsciously. For those families where parents read very little, if at all, it is pretty much guaranteed your children will not become big readers, no matter how much you encourage and threaten. Or worse, send them to the Sylvan Learning Center. And in truth, there is a bit of hypocrisy in parents imploring their little ones to read--because we know all the benefits of reading for educational, as well as soul enriching purposes--when they don't read a lick, other than the directions on some box.

If this is true, our children picking up our habits, then our little one is doing a bang up job of mimicking life in our household. He, like his parents, has a stack of books on his bedside table, along with his cup of water. The catalogs, collected during the pre-shopping season, is stacked along with a pen. It struck me, as I straightened his room, how similar his bedside table looked like ours.

Since he still believes in Santa Claus, and despite our cynicism, we haven't done anything to dispel his belief (I guess if we did, that would border on child abuse), it has been my job to snoop in his catalogs to see what it is he's circled as items his little heart covets. This anthropological study, of sorts, has been illuminating and hysterical. Since we hadn't set any parameters about what is acceptable, he has felt free to circle to his little heart's content. In each of the eight or so catalogs, he had circled some type of pirate ship. I suppose a pirate ship of one brand or another is bound to end up under the tree. There are the walkie talkie sets, which I know will be fun for one round of play, will end up broken and collectiong dust in the bottom of his endless toy bins. He circled the Harry Potter Legos thing, which is gargantuan and sure to bring about copious drinking for us after helping him put it together. Needless to say, that will not end up under the tree.

Despite my initial thought that the entire magazine would be circled, our son has been discriminating in his wants and desires. This is encouraging, if not a bit unsettling since he is a mere five years old. Somehow, despite his youth, he understood Santa, that most benevolent of characters, would know when a child was being gluttonous. Each day, taking a break from my work, I enter his room to gather the stack to see what more he circled before sleep overtook him. Each new item will mean another day for me, browsing the shelves at the Container Store, trying to figure out how to organize his stuff. His belief in the myth of Santa may only last this year--the day when he'll demand to know the veracity of what his friend had told him about Santa being made up. And with that demand will be the start of the slow unraveling of his childhood innocence.

In no time, I will be snooping in his room for other purposes, more serious, I'm sure. So, I enjoy this new break in my day when I can get inside my child's head, getting a peak into this little person. Some of what he circles sometimes gives me a glimpse, a very quick one, of the man he may become. Aside from chuckling at his grandiose plans to turn his room into a battleship, I also struggle with a sadness of how fleeting this time is for us all. It is usually to keep this sadness from settling into my chest that I sit down at my computer, not to work, but to shop online, ordering items that will, hopefully, bring about shouts of "that's so cool," from one little person--much beloved by his tired parents.

Green in the City

2007-11-14T07:35:00.000-08:00

I never saw "Inconvenient Truth," because I knew it would be too distressing for me. This avoidance of the movie doesn't mean I'm not a believer in the dangers of what global warming will mean to our world and for our children. When I lived in LA, the idea of recycling was one I didn't take too seriously. This seems odd since Angelenos are so 'hip' about anything green. Or so they say.

The city's recycling program was a joke, really. Most of my friends, even those who are more left than not, were not committed to recycling. How could they recycle bottles and plastic when their cars guzzled enough gas on an annual basis to fuel a small jet? This strange hyper talk about the importance of the environment was just that: talk. There was little evidence among Angelenos they were really going 'green.' I will say I don't blame the people as much as the lack of incentives offered by the state government. Solar panels, in a city sun-drenched 11 months out of the year, would seem like a no-brainer. But ask me how many people I knew who put solar panels up? Right, somehow those panels didn't take precedence over the satellite dishes on the roof of every house in my neighborhood. Then there is the dependence of everyone on the bottled water. No one ever used filtered water, instead opting for water out of bottles, plastic bottles at that.

I don't know why, but since I've come to New York I've been obsessed with recycling. Our apartment complex has recycling bins in the basement that allows for the sorting of paper, bottle, plastic, and refuse quite as easy as dumping everything into one bag and throwing it down the trash chute. Initially it started with the recycling of the newspaper and empty bottles after a night of drinking. Then I realized how much stuff comes in plastic containers, all of it recyclable. I'm now at the stage where I'm collecting items as I cook to take down to sort into their proper bins. Somehow my obsession has not stopped at the sorting of trash. No, it's now on to light bulbs, replacing all our bulbs with the long lasting kind. I've now forbidden my husband to stop running the dish washer unless absolutely full. If only I could get my hands on a compost bin for the city...

Perhaps it's living in a city where trash, or the sight of trash on sidewalks, makes this awareness an inevitability. Or perhaps it's the extreme weather occurring with greater frequency all over the world that's given me pause. But it seems this new focus on being green is, knowing my obsessive tendency, bound to get worse rather than better as time goes on. I know I'm going to get a compost bin in Martha's Vineyard. It seems the state of Massachusetts offers incentives by selling these bins cheaply to residents willing to compost their garbage. Of course this means I will have to have a vegetable garden since I will be making compost. No worries about me moving up to Vermont to really live among my people. I like urban life much too much to go to such an extreme.

But I do think about how a little effort could make a difference in whether or not we will have such things like wines out of California instead of Vancouver--notice my concerns about the wine making business. I know oil, our dependence on it, is something far worse than whether or not I recycle the plastic container the Chinese delivery came in. But then, isn't it all the same concern? If I disregarded how every little act or negligence adds to an increasing problem, aren't I no better than that Suburban-driving-mom with one child in some suburban town? And despite the conservatives claim that global warming is some hyped up call from the left, isn't it our moral duty to do what we can to preserve our planet? Don't I sound like all those annoying people who drive hybrid cars and are so sanctimonious about being green?

Only in LA

2007-11-14T04:59:00.001-08:00

For those long time residents, most are familiar with the sight of a man dressed in black tights, usually shirtless, dancing to a boom box in front of an antique shop on Robertson Boulevard just south of Third, across the street from Michel Richard. Sometimes he uses skates, although the outfit never varies. His body, from the excessive dancing, is sinewy and tanned. His strange dancing didn't seem to cause much concern for the shop owner or anyone else on the street. Most of us assumed he was homeless, for whatever reason. The urban myth, something all of us promoted, was that he was a wealthy man, who happened to be crazy and loved to dance. I, as most can imagine, have been fascinated with him all the years I lived there. When driving down Robertson, I would always look for him, a human signpost to a life that doesn't change much despite its big city pretensions.

When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.

The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.

What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...

For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.

The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.

Friends from LA

2007-11-13T06:01:00.000-08:00

Someone said if you live in New York people will always come see you. How true that is. It seems, not an exaggeration, we've had friends arriving for visits (not staying with us) to the city every week since moving here. I've found my calendar full of lunches, dinners with friends that I knew from LA. December, a magical time here, seems to be a busy month for us as more people arrive to the city.

This continued connection with our former life is nice in a sentimental way. It's allowed us to feel less cut off from a life that had been our entire existence until just a short time ago. It is as if both doors, the one of our current life, and the one of our past, are both open, revealing to us our future and past simultaneously. What's been amazing is how these old relationships are being re-imagined with this physical distance. Longtime friendships, those that extend beyond ten years, feel more anew, a different intimacy getting established. It's as if this physical distance has each of us reevaluating the importance of the bond, thereby making the relationship a priority. The usual empty promises of, 'let's get together,' are now becoming a thing of the past as each realizes such casual assurances about a future bond is not so assured anymore. Why hadn't we made such concerted efforts when we the distance separating us was a mere few miles and not the thousands?

I see how this new focus to old relationships will chart a course much different than if we had stayed nearby. These relationships that may not have survived the affection and annoyances of daily contact will now remain intact, insuring a longevity that neither of us may have imagined. My old friendships are just another layer to the many layers that make a life feel whole. New friends, those becoming more familiar every day, are now the calls that come more often. Those calls from out west are the happy surprises on those days when you need such a call to lift you up.

As another friend arrives this week, and we head to a dinner to see them this weekend, I marvel at our luck in having friends that would make a trip to this magnificent city, and call us out for dinner.

Weekend in Brandywine Country

2007-11-12T05:19:00.000-08:00

A group of writers I met at Juniper have been getting together annually for the last three years. The last two years we have been meeting at a charming Bed and Breakfast in the Brandywine country outside Philadelphia, a pastoral property owned by Grace Kelly's nephew. This annual get together with writers, but more importantly women writers, has become an event I look forward to with greater anticipation. This year's meeting was no less enjoyable, all of us settling into the ebb and flow of conversation, meals and drinking wine in front of a fire place.

This year, unlike last year's red eye flight, I traveled on Amtrack from Penn Station, the entire trip taking just over an hour. It was remarkable to see how dramatically my life had changed within this one year since last year was spent, aside from discussing the writing, with my ceaseless complaints about living in LA, yet again. And how I felt exiled, marooned in this place that was so foreign to me.

On the train ride down, I noticed the splendor of leaves that had turned color without the notice of any of us. The vista of reds, orange, and yellow was a startling splash of color amid the gray of the day as the train chugged its way down the short corridor from New York City to Philadelphia.

This year I was able to catch the train at 30th Street station, a place I know as well as any after so many years traversing the Northeast corridor by train, for Penn Station. Before I could get truly comfortable, the train was pulling into the city. A quick cab ride later, I was putting my key into our front door where my son and husband were waiting. Again, I couldn't help but be taken back by the dramatic difference of our lives within a few short months.

Heartbreak

2007-11-08T11:33:00.000-08:00

As a parent, you think your job is to love (not really a job but a condition), nurture, encourage, protect, and to take care of your child(ren). Most of us take on the multitude of duties this role requires, the new fragility of your life and your child's making your earlier invincibility a distant echo. The world becomes fraught with potential danger for your young one, your spouse, and for you. No one told me becoming a parent would make me so afraid of so much in the world. But the other secret, the one no one ever divulged, is the heartbreak of a parent when your child faces the childish rejection that comes so frequently in the world of elementary school.

All of us have many heartbreaks, wounds healed or simply scabbed over with time. Most of us can recall the first time a peer, or friend, made you cry, your heart breaking as this person you thought liked you now decided you were no longer likable. It starts as early as memory itself, the heartbreaks of childhood.

Your personal aches are unbearable, becoming bearable only with time and distance. Each of those tear-filled afternoons, holed up in your room, wishing you lived somewhere far from whatever town, city, or neighborhood are easily recalled. They become the thread of your personal quilt of memories.

But to see your child's heartache, a certainty for any child, is something no one can prepare you for. It is doubly more painful than your own woeful rejections. Today was a day I realized how emotionally fragile I was to the many heartbreaks my child will surely face. It was no longer an abstraction, something I had steeled myself for, but was happening in front of my eyes. The look of pain and sadness I saw flit across my little boy's face was enough to make me want to snatch him from his classroom, keeping him home, protected from such things in the future. Each of these moments will aid in his ebullience and sense of wonder become just a bit more fragile, so that one day that sheer delight in being five will be replaced by all the reserve of having to protect yourself from others.

Walking home after witnessing, unbeknown to my son, his rejection from his 'best friend,' I thought how unprepared I was for all of the messiness of life. I projected to a future where his aches and disappointments will be wounds that linger, leaving traces of its existence beneath the skin and bones the world only sees. And how I have to love him enough to let him experience each of these moments, never standing in the way of them, no matter how difficult that is for me. These thoughts stayed with me all day, bringing on moments of panic. I waited to see him at the end of the school day, trying to see what damage that rejection would have. When he rushed into my arms, still exuberant, I knew that moment was simply that--a moment. And tomorrow would surely bring others.

Radiohead

2007-11-08T04:44:00.001-08:00

Radiohead experimented by offering their music online, allowing the public to set the price for how much the music should be worth. It was an intriguing offer, upsetting a long established method where the music labels sold the goods--this case being the music created by artists as varied as Annie Lennox and Bjork. When the news first broke about Radiohead's offer, there was a sense of gloom and doom in the world of music labels, a business model that has to clearly be reinvented in this era of downloads.

For me, I was certain the public would rise to the test set forth by Radiohead, where the music label, the middle man in any transaction, would become obsolete as more and more musicians offered their goods directly to the public. It was a tremendous moment for change in a long held practice where the middle person made a ton of money off of something they had no hand in producing, and the producer got pennies on the dollar for every record or CD sold. And as an artist, the whole intellectual property question in an era where anything is accessible from a computer was compelling since our laws don't seem to keep up with the rapid changes technology creates.

And on a personal human level, I thought the generosity of the human spirit would show the music labels that people are capable of doing the right thing by paying fair prices, perhaps not the $15.00 currently the price for a new CD, but something that would not cheat the musicians. Well, how wrong I was, or rather, how naive I was to assume that people would do the right thing. It seems most of those downloading the albums did it without offering any money, whatsoever. And the average price offered by those, who did pay, was in the $6.00 range. The price may still be fair if the artists are getting the money directly. Considering how little it must cost to mass produce the actual CD's, I would say this price is fair.

The real shame in this experiment's failure is that other artists may never join in by doing the same. And most are pissed, rightfully so, because so much of their music has been downloaded for free. Being the Miss Goody Two Shoes that I am, or the guilt-ridden Catholic, I could never get into the whole free download phenomenon. As the old saying goes, "There's no free lunch," and so I always assumed someone would pay, either the consumer or the creator. Since I'm a creator it shouldn't be surprising I'm more sympathetic to the artists.

So, this moment has passed, and in a way, we, collectively have failed miserably. It would have been interesting to see if they could have done some sort of demographic poll of who paid versus who didn't. If there is a distinction in generation. It's safe to assume no other artists will do the same, even if Prince recently offered up free copies of his CD in London. But until the laws get wiser, or the industry creates a new model, this tension between artist and consumer will exist. And as artists see few real dollars in CD sales, but only in the touring end, well, there may be a time when they will only release albums at concert venues. That would be, for this musicphile, a real shame since concert tickets cost as much as a mortgage, in some cases. If that becomes the new method to procure new music, I may have to join all the other on line thieves and start downloading for free.

Vacation Days

2007-11-07T06:24:00.000-08:00

I've been joking of late about our dire need to get our son into a very conservative religious school, the kind that is not inclusive. Why you may wonder for such a reactionary statement? In our time of uber political correctness, public schools, and even religious schools that are inclusive, celebrate every holiday--with the exception of Kwanzaa and Hindu celebrations--which offers schools an excuse to close its doors. Closed schools only mean one thing for parents--hellish days of trying to keep the little ones occupied. And since we know the two most dreaded words in my lexicon is play date, that means a day off will surely bring a play date or two to keep our little one engaged. And since I don't have the luxury of working outside the home in the traditional sense, I am the one left to fend for our child's limited attention span.

Yesterday was election day, which meant the schools closed their doors. Our son had to take the ERB test for admittance into a New York City private school, so the morning was filled with that appointment. As a way to entice him to take this test, which he didn't know was a test, I promised him a visit to Toys R Us on Broadway. Right, you can imagine.

One thing about our son is his ability to accept the cruelty of his parents. Since he was very young, I've enforced the promise rule, which means he is allowed one thing, and one thing only, on visits to Target, bookstores, and toy stores. The one remarkable thing about our son is his ability to understand that the one item rule is really a rule. Therefore the process of picking the item is one long torturous event since it has to be the absolutely perfect thing he has wanted forever and ever.

Patience, a virtue, and a requirement for parenthood, is something that is needed in spades on such outings. My son, determined to get the exact, perfect toy, perused every aisle of this mammoth store with the ferris wheel in its lobby. After our third go round in the Star Wars section, my patience had worn thin and I was threatening the two minute rule, which translates into 'you have two minutes or else you don't get anything.' In all fairness, he did have items he wanted, but they were either too large for the apartment or they bordered on the violent play things that boys gravitate toward like moths to a flame, but is not allowed in this house. Yes, you can see how we torture him with such rules. So, this careful selection process was guided firmly by me telling him what was not acceptable or too big, hence, one can argue the prolonged, agonizing process.

After some final threats from me, he finally picked a Pokemon thing. It is usually when he's clutching his one item with not a peep about something else that my heart breaks for our rule-following kid. And that is when I break my own rule and throw in something else, something small to make this day even more special for him. Yes, he's spoiled. But when you see a five year old in a place that is nirvana for any child, satisfied with his one choice, well, such restraint makes a parent proud. He's not whining about something else, showing signs of a gluttony that could foretell a future filled with the need to satisfy an ever growing need for things.

Having paid for his items, we stepped out on to Broadway to make our way to 32nd for a Korean lunch. He prattled on about his new items, begging, of course, I open them on the bus or the subway. I know this innocence, the ability to make him so happy with a $12.00 plastic toy, will too quickly come to an end. And that whatever our hopes and wishes for him will mean nothing as he grows into the man he will become. The sense of how fleeting this time is for him and for me hits me in those moments when his hand is clutched in mine, his ever flowing chatter rising above the honks of car horns and ambulances shrieking. Too soon, he will be too old and independent to want to hold my hand, his chatter now staccato one word responses to my desperate attempts to connect with him. So, no matter what a nuisance it is that schools seem to close their doors every other week. In truth, I will, no doubt, look back to this time with more than wistfulness as our house stills and he goes out to seek a life wholly his own.

Procrastinate--A Lifetime worth

2007-11-06T04:26:00.000-08:00

It's well known most writers fight their own inner demons and find many ways to distract from the work at hand. This act of avoiding the work can take the form of the mundane to the creative. Some are known, including this writer, to clean their desks, organizing papers, receipts, contact lists, ipod music libraries, photo files, basically anything that can be categorized or organized.

There is nothing worse than sitting at the desk, the computer on, your hands on the keyboard, and your mind stuck on a particular word, a word that would make whatever sentence perfect. What's interesting about this process is how hard the work actually is, even if you aren't literally breaking a sweat. People assume writing to be this passive ephemeral act where inspiration will strike and a writer will type away furiously as if possessed by divine intervention. This may happen in Joyce Carol Oates' office, but I'm pretty confident when I say most writers work sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word. It is a process that can be exhilarating but also excruciating.

I have been, for the past five days, working on a particular passage of my book, chapter two in fact. It has been a laborious process of making sure the right words are used to evoke the mood and emotional landscape of the world I've created. Sometimes when I'm stuck, which happens a great deal, I switch over from my book to any number of shopping sites. It can be a dangerous distraction, indeed, as I browse the sites of Net a Porter, salivating over the latest designs by some of my favorite designers. But of late, with the holiday season fast upon us, I find myself shopping on line for holiday cards (yes, we are those annoying people who send out adorable photos of their child), toys from Santa for our son, and just general holiday gear. I wonder how I procrastinated before high speed DSL and before the advent of the plethora of shopping sites. I mean, what did I do before Ebay?

When the mental blockage is really bad, it is better to get up and simply read. Read anything from cookbooks to a 'how to' manual. Sometimes the mere act of reading words put together by someone else can unlock whatever it is that had prevented your own mind from unleashing all of those stopped up words. Or it can serve as a way to pass the remaining hour of your work day. When I had my entire library at hand, I used to browse my own collections, usually taking down a collection of poetry. This was not always a good thing since I would get so caught up in whatever collection I'd taken down for perusal that a few hours would slip by, unnoticed by me. Yes, a lifetime of fine tuning the ways to procrastinate can certainly take the reading of one poem to a few hours wasted.

One of the most amazing things about being here is the limitless opportunities to go hear some of the great writers of our age read their own work. John Ashberry, whose poetry is sublime or simply obtuse, is reading down the street from us tomorrow. I'm astounded he will be down the street, this poet whose work is discussed, dissected, misunderstood in many writing programs across the country. Perhaps today when I am stuck, which will surely happen, I will find a John Ashberry collection, if only I had my library.

Writers on Strike!

2007-11-05T04:44:00.000-08:00

I can only imagine how the news must be assiduously covering this Hollywood Crisis! I'm sure they must have reporters decamped to Paramount and other studios, getting sound bites of people, writers, holding up picket signs and chanting for more money.

I am usually a supporter of unions, having had to join one as an adjunct at SMC. But somehow mustering up sympathy for Aaron Sorkin, Darren Starr, or Dick Wolf seems a bit, well, against the principles of what unions are supposed to do: protect the worker. If, in this case, the worker earns millions of dollars does that mean our sympathies should be any less fervent than our sympathies for, say, the auto workers union? The New York Times reports the average paycheck for the union membership is $200,000, while the average earnings for a family in LA is $52,572.

The writers' are also grumbling about being treated poorly by the big bad studio and television networks. Somehow this whining for respect seems, again, just a bit like the baby whining about not getting another sweet treat. Hollywood's abuse of writers is well documented in many, many books. F. Scott Fitzgerald's beautiful, heartbreaking memoir, "The Crack-Up," documents his mental break down while in Hollywood, getting paid as a studio writer. This industry's abuse of writers is not new and is on par with its abuses of all workers in its own industry.

Everyone has heard about the legendary screamers in this business, those bosses who scream at their underlings because their Latte didn't arrive with enough foam. This is the only industry where such unorthodox behavior is not ignored, but in some cases applauded as some masochistic machoism. Don't get me wrong, some of the power brokers, who happen to be women, are as notorious as their male counterparts for all sorts of abusive behavior, behavior that would in any other industry be grounds for major lawsuits and firings.

I've often wondered why this particular business--key word since those 'creative types, who like to delude themselves into thinking they are in a creative industry should check their naivety at the door once entering the business--seems to draw out such meanness. After living in LA, it started to dawn on me that those attracted to this business were, most likely, those kids ignored or picked on by their classmates in high school. (I'm talking about those behind the scenes since most of those in the higher profile end tend toward the super jocks, cheerleaders, and beauty queens.) Instead of licking their adolescent wounds in private, they set their sights on HOLLYWOOD where they lick the bottom of every boss's shoe until one day they are, ta da, the bosses themselves.

It is once they are in this position of power, sycophants at every turn, that their true misanthropic tendencies get free reign. They then set out to seek revenge, think, "Revenge of the Nerds," on all those that had somehow done theme wrong. From the parent company's perspective, well, who cares when this abusive, pathological person is making them money, that being the only thing they truly care about.

The entire industry, much like else in life, is high school redux. The caveat being more money, more toys, and meaner games being played out. There are those who are popular--think George Clooney--, those who are most likely to succeed--think Ang Lee--, the class clown--think Steve Carrell--, etc.

So, forgive me as writers go on strike if my compassion for their plight is not there. Again, just as it was difficult for me to muster up a great deal of sympathy for those Malibu beach front properties in danger during the fires, the same applies here. Perhaps with television shows in reruns, people will spend more time reading or talking to their family instead of zoning out on that black box that seems to take up so much room in any house.

Marriage--True Test of Character

2007-11-02T06:16:00.000-07:00

Marriage is, next to parenting, the hardest undertaking of any individual. I don't believe the institution of marriage was created to survive the years we now live. The daily negotiation of marriage means you are part lawyer and part therapist. I've always said if my husband dies (God forbid, right?) or we divorce, I shall never, ever get married again. The thought of entering into another union where compromise is the constant theme seems downright crazy. When I say this, people laugh (usually uncomfortably), and then probably assume my marriage is profoundly unhappy.

Our marriage is no more unhappy or happy than the average marriage. My feelings, rather strong ones at that, have always percolated underneath my seemingly naturalness at domesticity. Most people know I didn't really want to get married. This resistance was not a comment on my husband, but rather the institution. I felt, and still do feel, women lose much more in marriage than men. Statistics are always coming out with figures that show men's longevity improving in marriages, whereas wives seemed to suffer all sorts of ailments when married. The new murkiness of gender roles has made it all the more difficult for women and men to maneuver expectations of this long held institution.

A new obsession in our house is a show called, "Mad Men." It is set in the world of advertising in the late 50's. The show could be a metaphor for any of the financial industries today where people are constantly hedging their morals and ethics for the bottom line. What's disconcerting about this show is how little marriage, or rather the strains between the two genders, has changed since this past era. Or let me rephrase by saying, how little these roles for husbands and wives have changed in certain sectors of our society--namely the upper-middle class. Yes, we have a viable female candidate for the Presidency. But within the walls of most gated homes, these deeply entrenched roles for men and women still persist. And in truth, I saw these traditional roles being played out ad nauseum in LA.

It was quite enlightening for me to see smart women, who had accepted this role of 'wife' so readily. The question of equality and why women's roles have, or have, not changed didn't seem to be of concern to most of these women. Those discussions and fights were for 'others,' not for their PTA crowd. They were only concerned dinner get on the table, and that their kids were chauffeured to their various after school activities. It was distressing to see their days relegated by driving and feeding duties, their entire intellectual life put away, if they ever had one.

My husband and I struggle constantly with the shifting roles of husbands and wives. It is something we address each time one of us gets pissed off at the other for some oversight of a household responsibility. We are, despite me working from home, a two career household, which creates all sorts of complications. I don't view my career of writing any less important than my husband's. If I were to say his career more important, well, I might as well give up writing entirely and succumb to motherhood, wivehood, and every other 'hood.' Re imagining marriage, or the roles within a marriage, takes courage and a certain cavalier attitude that what we create will, more than likely, be frowned upon or misunderstood by most people.

I've thought a great deal about these differences, and in context of how they seem to differ between what I witnessed in LA and here. I do find more women in NY who are professionals. I have not met many women of the 'those who lunch' crowd here. Most of the mothers at my son's school seem harried, tired, juggling working and taking care of their family--a true modern woman. And the ones who are not working seem to view motherhood as their job, so that they don't have a retinue of nannies to help them. But then I don't live on the Upper East Side where this may be more prevalent, women with help who shop and lunch as their main profession. Perhaps this has to do with the Protestant work ethic being such a foundation of life on the Eastern seaboard. Or perhaps it has to do with the expense of hiring nannies, which is not an issue in LA where cheap illegals can be exploited at a very affordable price, making what used to be mainly an upper-middle class option now an option for everyone.

I've also been thinking about marriage a great deal since I've been reading a book that looks into Post Victorian Marriages of writers in England. This book focuses mainly on the unique unions of writers and intellectuals as they try and redefine gender roles post-Victorian era. And how miserably they fail despite their efforts to redefine this institution. What's striking from reading this book is how far we've come and how little has changed, really. So, this balancing act that I am always living will hopefully become easier over time. Or it may not and I will still be grousing about the inequities between the genders, particularly within the confines of married life.

Halloween in the Big City

2007-11-01T04:55:00.000-07:00

The area where we are living was built for returning war veterans, one of the few affordable housing left in this city. It is a massive footprint, large enough to warrant designation on any given city map. This community of buildings and green space is where young families live side by side, underneath, and on top of older long-time residents, whose days are now measured by the smaller details of life. It is strangely like living in a suburban spread, yet in the middle of the city. For our first year here, it has been the ideal choice. In some ways, it resembles Park LaBrea except the property is not cut off to the rest of the city by gates. Instead, the property blends into the landscape of the East Side, open, inviting, and easily accessible. Even the lack of gates doesn't deter you from feeling safe here as you walk around, noticing the older residents sitting on park benches, enjoying the fresh air.

The large green space held a Halloween festival for the plethora of kids, who call this home. There was an impressive corn maze in the middle, games along the edges, and a dance floor where loud music blared from speakers. My son, who had been beyond excited about this day, soon joined in the fracas of playing games for candy and trying to get through the maze. We took a break from the festivities by heading to a friend's house for pizza, and wine for the adults. Then we went 'trick or treating' city style. We rode the elevator up the top floor of our friend's building and made our way down by walking down the stairs of the fire escape.

Each time a door opened to welcome our gang of kids, you couldn't help but glimpse the life inside. Older people, some with live-in aides, still opened their doors, eager to give out the sugary confections, perhaps nostalgic about former lives when they were the ones knocking on doors with their young ones behind masks. Each opened door also revealed the way people imagine spaces that are all identical to their neighbors. You could see how a bookshelf in one corner changed the way the room flowed. Or the way long-time residents hung chandeliers over dining areas. It was illuminating for each of us adults as we wound our way down 14 flights. The kids' bags full, we headed to our building and to our apartment. The adults continued drinking wine as all the kids played, or rather, destroyed our son's room. Every so often, the doorbell would ring, signaling another round of 'trick or treaters,' who had ventured to our door that had been covered in fake cobwebs.

My son didn't comment on the differences of trick or treating in apartment buildings versus his old neighborhood in LA. Instead, he was concerned he have the 'right' costume this year and for the next year. His friends left with their tired parents behind. My husband and I put our young boy to bed, relieved to have survived this first Halloween in the city.

Shopping---Doctors

2007-10-31T04:44:00.000-07:00

I'm now meeting with doctors, hoping to replicate the two, Ob and Internist, I had in LA. It has been a mixed bag, this process of trying to find a doctor that will be the right mixture of cautious and neurotic. In all fairness, both of my doctors in LA became personal acquaintances, if not friends. During the course of the ten or so years, they had seen me through pregnancy, illness, and general bad moods. So, trying to replicate these long ties was a tall order. It's no surprise how disappointing all of this has been thus far, even in this area where I'm surrounded by three large hospitals.

I had started this search by sending out an email to those I know here, those I thought would have been conscientious in their own doctor search. It's funny how irrelevant all of this is when you're in your 20's, but more pressing as you turn 40. I can no longer be cavalier about mammograms, high blood pressure, cholesterol levels, and general health concerns for those who are middle age. I need a doctor, whose bedside manner is amiable, but still neurotic enough to get that extra test done if there is a need for caution. A doctor who is all bedside manner, but lacking in aggression in their attack of whatever ailments, is probably not a doctor for me at this juncture of my life, no matter how much more pleasant a visit would be with such a physician.

I made appointments for all this week, in the hope this doctor issue will be sorted before a crisis occurs. The first appointment went well. I thought him the right fit for the general health concerns most of us face. My next appointment was for an OB, who was part of a large group practice. The person who had recommended her had warned she was 'no nonsense.' I had no idea 'no nonsense' meant zero personality. In fact, her personality, what little there was, bordered on the combative. It was a shock to my system since my OB in LA was someone I had a secret crush on for years. He was the one person who could take a needle-phobe like me into a confident pregnant woman, capable of not passing out every time blood was needed to be drawn. He was the man who delivered my son, making sure my phobias didn't turn an already stressful experience into a whole new dimension of stress.

I left her office, wondering how finding the right doctor was like shopping for anything else in life. The only difference was that you don't get to try on for size most physicians, although such a thing should be allowed. But in our age of health insurance craziness, for those of us fortunate enough to be insured, well, the idea of taking a test run on a doctor is not advised or covered. So, there I was, having wasted an appointment on this person, who was clearly not going to remain my OB.

I was disheartened enough to consider the radical decision to remain with my OB in LA, and jetting in once a year for my annual check ups. I know that is not advisable since, God forbid, I would be quite stuck if there was some complication down the road. And as much as my old doctor adores me, I doubt he would fly 3000 miles to oversee my care. So, off to the boards I go as I search some more for a doctor that will be the appropriate fit for me--no tall order given my phobic nature.

The Village

2007-10-30T04:46:00.000-07:00

I still find myself in awe with where I am. Yesterday was just such a day as I found myself down in the Village on my way to visit with a new doctor. I stumbled on to a little street called Washington Mews. The stones of the street were as charming as the carriage houses that lined both sides of this tiny thruway, connecting 5th Avenue to University Place. As much as I love the convenience of new buildings, there is something wildly romantic about living in such an old little cottage, tucked away from the city. I walked through, passing various doors, wondering how, or who, had the good fortune to live inside. I could envision a book-lined wall, a small staircase leading upstairs to a bath and bedroom. It was all I could do to keep from peaking into one of the windows, so desperate to see how others lived in such a charming home.

I love walking in cities, no matter how big or small. There is no way to stumble upon such idyllic places except by walking. Paris, one of the best walking cities, is a place where I am always stopping in mid-stride to stare longingly into one of those Parisian apartment buildings, a big wooden door opening on to such a picturesque courtyard. There's nothing more enticing to a voyeur than a walk at dusk, as lights get turned on inside. You can stand on a street, observing lives unfolding behind glass as bodies walk past windows. Aside from the possibility of discovery, I love the anonymity that walking in cities offers--the feeling of being swallowed up by the streets, bodies, and cars.

I'm finally cutting all ties with my former life as I forge new relationships with doctors here. Each step in establishing a life in a new city takes me just a bit further away from my former life. I feel quieter about all of it now. I am settling into the realities of the day to day life here. Groceries get ordered and delivered, meals prepared, coffees drunk with new friends, all the while taking note of how dramatically different my life is to where it had been a year ago. How my reality today was impossible to fathom, no matter how desperately I wanted it to happen. How things can change in a moment.

I have weaned myself off of movies set in New York. The city is becoming too intimate, too familiar for me to luxuriate in images, usually idealized by others as the perfect city. Now, I have real concerns about buses, subways, and getting my son to school on time, even if the walk is a mere one block.

Brisk Days

2007-10-29T04:37:00.000-07:00

The weather has turned and is now 'brisk' a euphemism for cold. I headed to a well-known coat store to prepare for those days when going outside is painful due to cold and wind. A new added difference in my life is the proximity of my cousin, who is more like a younger sister than a cousin. She is blocks, truly a mere few blocks away, so is always on hand to meet for a little shopping, cup of tea, and to drink bottles of wine, which we do when she's over for dinner. This relationship, an extension of the crazy, close, but too close to be viewed as healthy of our mothers, is much like any familial relationship. We love each other, but are also inflicted with the complications of the relationship of our two mothers. It is something both of us cherish despite it all.

This weekend before Halloween was an overdose of this strange holiday, one I've never understood. My son, much like all of his peers, was beyond excited to get dressed as Dracula, his choice, and to attend the Fright Night at his school, sponsored by the PTA. I don't recall so many activities in LA for this one holiday, other than the vans full of trick or treaters that would descent on our little block. It seemed the entire city had activities in celebration of this ghoulish night with parties, trick or treating in the Village, and a Pumpkin Patch in Central Park. Dressed to go out for a night out with my husband, I found myself applying white face make up on my son as I readied him for his sitter and for Fright Night. As I applied the make up, the irony of my brown skinned son getting 'white face,' was one that made me laugh. I know too soon these moments when my son needs me will all be a part of the landscape of memories. The sense of watching and participating is with me every day as he take leaps in growth and maturity. The habit of spelling words I didn't want him to understand has come to a screeching halt as he sounds out letters and is spelling at the most elementary level.

I sometimes wonder if we'd made a mistake only opting for the one child. How different our lives would be if we had the messiness of having another child, either boy or girl, requiring logistical maneuvering, manageable at a sane level with only one. The excuse of living in New York seems selfish as I see families around us, families of four or more. I can already see the acceptance of the solitariness of being an only child in my son as I hear him playing by himself for hours on end, imaginary cities being created as he talks to himself. The product of just such a family makes me more aware than others of what is ahead for my son--the constant tug between craving social interaction and the refuge of solitude.

As they say, too late. The die is cast and he will forever be the only child of this unique union. I'm sure we will, his father and I, be a source of embarrassment and pride.

Los Angelenos Are Crazy

2007-10-26T04:59:00.000-07:00

I hate to generalize again, but there you have it. There is no other way to describe the 'characters' I know from that city. My old neighbor, a woman I never shared a meal with when we lived next door, came to the city for a visit. She had phoned a few weeks ago expressing an interest in having lunch. Since she was always personable, I said 'of course.'

The lunch was fine. We sat at the Mercer Kitchen, eating and talking about various topics. I found myself asking lots of questions since my knowledge of her life was not substantiative beyond her career--set designer--and marriage status--single, but dating same person. I asked if she was currently working on a new project to which she replied she was working on two, one of which is a children's book. I thought her response intriguing since she's single, and does not have children. Was it possible she had been a secret aficionado of children's picture books? I know as voraciously as I read, I hadn't glanced a children's book until my son entered our home. So, the fact that a childless, single woman read enough children's books to feel confident to write one was quite intriguing indeed.

Here's where the craziness became apparent. She doesn't read children's books beyond the books she'd read from her childhood. And her book, based on her two dogs as main characters--yes, she's one of those crazy dog people--is a story about the dogs (young children) who are left by their mother with a credit card because she has to get to work, and therefore, doesn't have time to feed her two young children before their first day of school. The kids, being precocious tots, want to eat sushi, so off to Japan they go with the, said, credit card. Instead of green eggs and ham, they eat green sushi. Instead of an American school, presumably to attend Kindergarten, they go to a Japanese school where the learn Japanese. Hmmmm....

Where does one begin? The fact I didn't laugh out loud in her face with incredulity is a sheer feat of restraint on my part. I didn't know how to delicately put it to her that even the most inane kids books are based on reality. The idea of a mother, in our current culture of hyper-parenting, leaving her kids alone with a credit card to feed themselves is beyond implausible. I did try and point out that perhaps there should be a babysitter there to whom the mother leaves the credit card with the instruction to take the kids to whatever restaurant the kids desire. She thought this a very good idea since she hadn't thought of the need for some adult presence in the story. Again, where does one begin? I told her that there are kids in our world who are left alone for whatever reasons, but those parents are usually involved in some institutional system: welfare, child social services. And the fact the mother has the means to leave a credit card probably rules out this possibility.

There is something marvelously adventurous, courageous even, about people getting the gumption to try and do things without previous experience or training. I mean, she is someone who has never, ever written a children's book. And yes, this story may not be the most telling of her capabilities after she wraps her head around how parenting and children work in this 21st century. She may very well be the next Kevin Henkes or Dr. Seuss for all we know. And if not for this gumption to try, well, she may never know whether this little idea of hers, this impulse to try this thing could open her life to an entire new direction. I applaud this spirit, such a part of the mythology of the wild, wild west, something people who are drawn to this part of the world inhabit so completely.

But again, as I sat and listened to her rambling on about the process of writing this book, I couldn't help marveling at how crazy all of it sounded to me, this single childless woman writing children's books. After our thorough discussion of her project, we moved on to other safer topics. As I left her in Soho, I walked away thinking what an interesting afternoon it had been. And how it takes so many kinds of people to make up the world.

City Experienced Through Movies

2007-10-25T05:03:00.000-07:00

When I was in LA, a condition I have a hard time categorizing as living since it felt more like treading water, I used to savor and devour any, and all, movies shot in and about New York. No matter how inane, sentimental, absurd, or just plain bad, I would sit through any movie that captured this city on film. You can imagine how rabid I was about watching "Sex and the City," since the city was a character as much as those singletons desperate for love. You know it's bad when I made my husband sit through "Autumn in New York," one of Winona Ryder's last movies, and for good reason if anyone has seen it. And Woody Allen, pre-scandal, was at his most prolific when allowing this city to be the main feature of his movies. I think it interesting that as he gets older, more jaded, and less creatively prescient, he has headed across the pond for inspiration.

When I found life too grim, which could be most days in that sunny environ, I would rent out all the classic titles starting with Woody Allen's "Manhattan," and ending with any of Nora Ephron's films set in this city. The day would be spent aimlessly watching the movie, not for story sake, but simply to absorb the images of this much beloved city. Yes, I have watched "You've Got Mail," more than any sane person should admit to. My husband, who knew the drill too well, asked recently how many times I had watched a certain movie, which happened to be on one of our many movie channels, being watched, yet again. He teased that it must exceed ten, if not hobbling toward 20. I laughed along with him because, well, in my few sane moments, I knew how crazy all of this was. But a part of me realized that all of this living vicariously through film had now come to an end. That I was now living the life I'd imagined for so long. And being me, well, that has created a certain anxiety--much to be expected for those familiar with my particular peculiarities.

I have corresponded with an old neighbor about how the fires have, or have not, affected our old neighborhood. She was full of complaints about the air quality, which on a fire-free day is just on par with Mexico City. I couldn't imagine how bad it must be, and to see no relief in sight to clear out the smoke and ever lingering smog. It was during such days when our son's asthma would kick in with a severity that would require him to stay home from school. The drizzle that made umbrellas a necessity on our morning walk to school felt like a gift from above. The chill in the air feels like it will stay awhile.

My son rarely mentions LA now. He no longer complains about walking everywhere even on those days when it is rainy and gray. This new life is now every day for him, and for the rest of us. We, each of us, is rejuvenated by the changes, the pace of this new city life. My work is going well, or rather, I'm working again after so many years of not. I find the hours between 8:30 and 2:30 passes too quickly as I look up from staring intently at the computer, only to realize it is time to pick up my son. The somnolence of the last five years have come to an end as everything in my life has gained such clarity: my work and my family. Reading, something that offered and continues to offer such solace, is like everything else clearer. I'm no longer reading to escape my world, but reading for all the reasons a writer is supposed to read.

I feel this last half of my life as a writer will be the most productive. There may be another book in me, if not a few more books. I know the blistering pace at which I work will not put me in the category of Joyce Carol Oates, although very few writers are in her league. But I hope and pray I shall not suffer the fate of Harper Lee, who spent the rest of her life trying to write another. God willing.

Fires, Mud Slides, Drought, and Santa Ana

2007-10-24T05:42:00.000-07:00

The four seasons of weather in Los Angeles come in cycles, much like the four seasons of Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. And the current season when leaves turn color, the breeze a bit cooler in most of the country, is when winds come blowing, quite a gust which blows, not cool air, but instead is hot dry wind that had, in an earlier time, blown, creating the dust bowls of the west--what we Angelenos call the Santa Ana. This season's Santa Ana's has been more destructive than telephone lines getting toppled. No, this season's winds in confluence with a drought has made nearly a million people homeless.

I always lamented the lack of seasonal changes in the weather, thinking the balmy, 70 something weather an aberration to the natural way of life. It seemed fitting that we would pay, and pay dearly, for such idyll when everyone else contends with the challenges of weather. So, when it rained in LA, it poured. There were no sprinkles or spotty showers. No, the rain would start as if God had turned the sprinkler on full, and then left it on for more than 30 days. During the one winter when it had rained for more than 30 days straight, I joked to my friends that we should all be building an ark since the floods was sure to follow.

As I sit 3,000 miles away, I find myself watching the news of what's happening over there with concern. I know if the winds carried one little ember to the Santa Monica mountains, well, the city would never be the same from such a catastrophe. I keep imagining the flames engulfing the Palisades, Holmby Hills, Bel Air, and then Beverly Hills, devouring the man made lawns and watered gardens in its path.

The New York Times Sunday magazine had an in depth article about graver concerns facing the Southwest that would make these fires look like a mini-Armageddon. They predict global warming will have the averse affect in this dry, arid region by creating not more rains, as they predict for other regions, but in fact a drought of biblical proportions. This drought along with the population surges would create a world much like, "Mad Max," where people aren't fighting for oil, or so we hope, but are in fact fighting for that natural resource, now a commodity, water. The thing that struck me about this article is that the awareness most of those in power have about this upcoming crisis. Yet, none of them have come out and told the citizenry to conserve water, to stop watering their English gardens, an aberration in the desert. Villaraigosa said something about conserving during the summer months, but it was in correlation to the recent drought, not a warning about the dire situation of the future. Yes, the article may be a bit alarmist, but surely if enough scientists predict such a thing, people should give some consideration to their predictions. But no, I know how most of the people in LA work. They will talk about these fires, which I know are being covered assiduously by Paul Moyers--an idiot who must surely have been the model for William Hurt's character on "Broadcast News"--each bit of the story portentous, tragic. All the daytime shows are probably interrupted as the local news covers the stories, running to each new devastated spot, following the 50 mile an hour winds, each new gust bringing another tragic story to cover.

When Griffith Park was engulfed, friends had called to let us know we could evacuate to their homes. Our home, thankfully, was not in danger, but the fires were close enough for us to not feel any measure of comfort that it was the hillside behind engulfed. Other friends of ours, those closer to the park, had to evacuate, fleeing to various hotels in the city--yes, it was a crisis, but no need for any of us to suffer sitting among so many strangers at a Red Cross center.

We awoke to a gray day, rain imminent, rain that would be welcome for those waiting to see whether fate would spare them, even as those to the left and right of them was not spared. I dropped my son off at school, avoiding the PTA meeting scheduled for this morning. Just as I walked outside, the rain started falling, making me grateful that this precipitation is just a part of the ever-changing weather of this city, this coast.

Writing--Not an Autobiography

2007-10-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

All writers write from their life, not about their life, that is unless you are a memoir writer. And memoirs, I've always felt, are some of the best fiction out there on the market. I think writers, when working on something that is supposed to be biographical, will exaggerate for dramatic purposes, not concerned how the obfuscation may alter the situation as it had truly occurred. In contrast, I think fiction writers reveal more of themselves emotionally in their writing, feeling a freedom that the guise of fiction allows.

I don't think a great deal about how much I reveal myself in my work. There can be no censor for any artist to create and writing is a method for me to figure out the truths of my life. It is a way, consciously, to connect the dots that seem to swirl around me. I can't worry about how something I write will, or can, affect those around me, particularly my family. My husband has had to contend with the reality that a portion of our life gets revealed either explicitly in language, or worse, in the emotional tone of how something is written.

I doubt I'd ever want to write a roman a clef, skewering those that I find incomprehensible, or worse, reprehensible. The pettiness of doing something like this has never interested me. And most people I find so loathsome don't deserve the creative efforts and endless hours that a book requires in the creation and in the fine tuning.

I am hard at work on this revision of my novel. As when I had written the original draft of this book some of the passages are incredibly sad and painful. There are times when I've reread or worked hard at a passage that the emotional weight of what's on the page hits me hard and I am sobbing, literally, my face buried in my hands. This book is not a factual rendering of everything in my life, but it is more of an emotional diary of something that I had experienced. It is as if I had stuffed all the pain and grief of my estrangement from my parents into this one book. And perhaps that is why I was able to deal with this incredibly painful situation. True, I wrote this book long after my parents and I had started the process of healing and forgiving. But instead of letting the residue of this painful episode cloud our relationship, I was able to put the grief of this period into a book. It is these 300 some pages that bears the brunt of the emotional morass of the pain that families can inflict upon one another.

When I had finished writing this book, a book my father had encourage me to write, I let him read the first chapter. I waited for his response, unsure how he would respond. I know it must have been painful for him to read those thirty some pages, but he never once discouraged my work. He said it was beautifully written and left it at that. I know when people read this book, they will read is as biography. When in truth, the realities of any writer's life gets fractured in their work. The voice of a writer is where the truth lies. And trying to decipher that is an impossible task, even for the most experienced reader.

I'm now living inside this book, easily distracted by ideas, thoughts, that occur throughout the day. As painful as this book was to write, I now have the distance of time to see what I was able to create from something that may have brought others to their knees, or worse, made them embittered.

Fall From Above

2007-10-22T04:44:00.000-07:00

We went to the Vineyard to move in some of our things from storage. As boxes came off the moving truck, each one revealed familiar items I'd forgotten we'd owned. Again, I was struck by how much stuff we'd accumulated in LA, how much of it was meaningless. There were a few items, the Buddha statue from a dear friend which had sat under the oak tree, that brought out a chorus of happy, 'ohs,' as each of us reveled in being reunited with the familiar token. In a strange way, it was like Christmas, but the presents from items you'd had, neglected, or worse, never really noticed.

For us this trip to the Vineyard in October was a first. The island was noticeably quieter, the restaurants--those that were still open--barely full. My son was disappointed to find his favorite pizza and clam strip place shuttered already, the windows newspapered over, chairs on top of tables. There was an air of desolation that was beautiful, such a contrast to the bustle of the summer season. Ocean park was still as inviting, the water as blue. I could imagine the quietude of these months being soothing, an exhale of satisfaction.

The weekend was over too quickly as the small plane climbed up, providing a glorious vista below. I could trace familiar bodies of water, distinguishing towns amidst clusters of trees. I wondered how it was that I knew this island better than any other place in my life. As our planed headed toward Boston, I saw a painterly splashes of reds, a picture reminiscent of a Manet, if he were to pain the scenery from above.

Literary Society--Mumbai

2007-10-19T04:37:00.000-07:00

As I'd mentioned before, there is a large East Indian population here in New York and also on the East Coast. Last night I was invited to a book event for an Indian writer--not really fair since she's a writer of Indian descent--whose book, from what I could gather, was a cross between "Devil Wears Prada" but set in the law profession. The evening was attended by all women, 97% East Indian, and 97% attorneys. I had no idea the preponderance of East Indian women going into the law profession. The book, which I didn't buy, was being hawked, albeit, quietly by the writer, who until recently had been a lawyer. See a theme here?

The evening was funny on so many levels, not all of which I can share. What I took away from the night was how similar my experiences were to those of these women. How certain experiences are universal to the immigrant story, particularly for those of us with transnational parents whether from Mumbai or Seoul. For me, the best part of the evening was talking to a publicist with a publishing house, who works on Marilynne Robinson's books, a writer I have read again and again.

It's now been over a month since our arrival. And much has happened, and then, not. Friendships, nascent bonds, are being formed slowly. Despite the number of days I am alone working, the specter of loneliness does not hover overhead. I can't explain why in the social whirl of my life in LA, the loneliness was so acute, an ache that seemed to spread to the point of suffocation. Our son, who still misses his Tia, asks for her less. By year's end, his life in LA will be a mere memory, something he will be unable to recall as easily as he can now.

Cooking as Release

2007-10-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

When I'm in the throes of work, that is, the writing is going well, or as well as it can ever go, I like to finish each work day by cooking. There's a tremendous release in doing something tactile. It's not as if my brain has shut down because I've walked away from the computer, au contraire! No, the work never ends, but gets subsumed by the physical actions that cooking requires. There is something quite meditative about working with one's hands. The repetitive act of chopping, dicing, slicing helps unwind the brain, almost as if my mind's been given free reign to venture, to roam. It was while cooking that the idea, the genesis of my book, came to me. Yes, the process of getting from that one moment to the actual writing is as arduous as climbing Mr. Everest, without the Sherpas for help. But one can't sit or be prompted to sit for hours, days, months, years on end without that flash of something, whether an idea, a story, a word, an image, a line.

The creative release, purely physical compared to the writing, that cooking enables is also a wonderful contrast to doing something so cerebral. Of course, the most obvious benefits are the smells, the tastes of a finished product. Perhaps it is this, the physical product that can be created in an hours time, compared to the feeling of never finishing in my real work, that I find so satisfying. Every writer I know suffers from the same feeling that the work can always be improved. Toni Morrison once said that after "The Bluest Eye" came out, she found herself with a copy of her book in a library, rereading, but really reediting as she read her words, standing in an aisle of the library.

When I was writing the first draft of my novel, I would finish each work day of writing--usually 5, 6 hours on a really good day--by going into the kitchen and cooking. There were days when I'd make two entrees because I found the release so enervating. The frenzied cooking is to squelch the free fall that one feels when working on a book. Each chapter, its blank pages taunting you, can be incredibly suffocating, and at times, debilitating. The threat of failure, ever present, is worse when staring you in the face, the cursor blinking.

I am back on a final round of revisions on my novel, this time under deadline, of sorts. The work is going slowly, but I can feel it building. At the end of each day, hours now reduced to 4, I go into the kitchen, crank up the Ipod, and start cooking. Yesterday's menu comprised of a spinach pie and an apple cake.

Before the child, I used to finish work by reading for a few hours before heading into the kitchen. This part of my day has been replaced by swim lessons, now school interviews, and Tae Kwon Do classes. Someday, hopefully not in the distant future, I will reclaim those hours when I could sit and read. That fantasy is right up there with being marooned on an island with Daniel Day Lewis--before he became crazy, but during the period when he shot 'My Beautiful Laundrette'.

Today's work will bring what it will bring as I try and sort out some big issues, and not so big issues with the book. At day's end, the kitchen may emanate smells reminiscent of a Roman Trattoria as I go in and whip up a large bowl of spaghetti carbonara for my family.

The United Nations of Families

2007-10-17T05:02:00.000-07:00

My son's birthday was celebrated in D.C. at my in-law's, who delighted in being able to throw him a party for the first time in five years. My mother-in-law, the embodiment of the 'perfect' martyred mother, baked cupcakes, a cake, and then the bonanza--a cake shaped like a Volkswagen car. She invited my husband's cousin and his three kids along with her own first cousin's daughter and her two kids. Their small house soon filled with laughter and talk about people's health in between bites of the fried chicken I had helped fry that morning.

I looked outside, reveling in the perfect fall day, noticing the 6 kids, my son included, playing various destructive games that involved the immolation of an apple tree. What struck me about all of the kids was that each was the product of an interracial marriage. The three from my husband's cousin are half Bolivian, each of them calling me Tia instead of the customary aunt. The other two half Caucasian girls, their father the offspring of a Lutheran minister from Pasadena, California, were precocious in a way I found unsettling. Once you've spent any time with Black families, you quickly realize the color spectrum of Blackness, even among members of the same family. And nothing was more striking about the kids than the various shades of brown.

This color spectrum will play out in how each child will maneuver their identity as a Black American. No doubt for some, being Black will be all encompassing of their racial identity, the result of the roll of the dice of genes. For some of the others, whose hues may be lighter, their hair straighter, they will have to manage to feel their way in a world that is so quick to prejudge based on race. I always believed the world gets murkier when your looks belie your true identity. There is no more tragic figure than the 'mulatto,' able to pass in most situations, having listening to people freely expressing their racial attitudes. Anatole Broyard, a well respected literary critic for the New York Times and writer, who lived his life as a white man, his secret identity a well-known secret in the black community of intellectuals, left behind a legacy of secrets that his children are still trying to sort out. His children learned about his father's subterfuge from their mother upon his death, this cataclysmic secret having his children question every aspect of their father's role in their lives. Such is the murkiness of race and color in this world, even in the 21st century.

My son's cries of frustration, a result of his 'girl' cousins excluding him, soon overtook any of my pensive thoughts about the future of all of these kids. I had to console him, trying to explain that this was only the beginning of a lifetime where women will play some role in his emotional turmoil. Soon enough, the kids had found another object of their focus. And my son, the first time in his five years, got to blow out his candles, surrounded by the many shades of brown faces of one half of his family.

Childhood Accelerated

2007-10-15T12:49:00.000-07:00

Everything in our culture feels accelerated from the most mundane to the most esoteric. Communication is now available to us in milliseconds, a call arriving anywhere and anytime. The written correspondence composed on beautiful stationery is now available as quickly as a thought is cogent--the internet. A leisurely meal now means you've lingered at your table, gasp, for more than two hours. As everything gets accelerated, it's only fitting that childhood gets on this speed cycle. Kindergarten is now what first grade used to be for us--those of us north of thirty. Learning to read and write are part of the curriculum in Kindergarten. The days when kids came for half day programs, played some blocks, learned to socialize with peers have been replaced by journal writing, math, discussion of 'feelings,' art, music, and gym. I get tired just thinking about my five year olds full day. Hence, it's only fitting that their games, the intricacies of their games have accelerated. My son, who is a mere five only days ago, discusses at length about the number of children he will have, and who will be caring for them. At five.

A documentary about adolescence, narrated by Samuel Jackson, brought the hyper speed of childhood into light. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen year olds gave candid interviews about their sexual experiences, usually fueled by drinking parties. Drinking parties at twelve. Somehow these sexually-loaded, alcohol-fueled nights felt so adult, in fact, they reminded me of the parties I had attended as a sixteen year old in high school. Children today are experiencing things three years ahead of previous generations. To listen to a twelve year old girl describing how acceptable it was to give 'head' to her boyfriend made my head spin. This troubling trend is all the more disturbing since we, Americans, have made an art of preserving childhood-- compared to the rest of the world. This twelve year old discussing fellatio is a tad bit less disturbing than the nine year old prostitute in Thailand, whose childhood came to an end a long time ago because of poverty. So, compared to the rest of the world where childhood is a commodity for sale, our children do remain innocent longer. Or do they?

This speeding up of life will, I assume, only accelerate. What's next, drinking parties for third graders? If we keep up at this speed, that seems to be the way our world will end up, a bunch of brazen, drunken third graders, discussing fellatio.

As much as I try and preserve our son's childhood, it is a constant battle in a world where at every turn, our culture is aimed at curtailing this brief period of innocence. When we were in LA, our neighbors were taking their two year olds to see the latest animated movie from Pixar or Disney. A movie theater for a two year old. Somehow that didn't feel right to us as a family, considering I didn't see a movie till I was at least 9 or ten. The need to keep our child plugged into the latest cultural fad, dictated by a bunch of animated characters, seemed like a fools errand.

I know each generation says parenting is the hardest job. And it is. But I know the world, our world, is out of control when my parents tell me they'd hate to raise a child today. This same sentiment has been expressed on more than one occasion by a number of older people. I don't what's more challenging: raising a boy or raising a girl.

I wish I'd been able to sleep that night instead of watching with mouth agape at these 'tweens' discussing their worlds. Shock was one emotion, but sadness was what I'd most felt, seeing such young kids sorting out emotions and the intricacies of intimacy and sex, complications adults can barely manage to figure out. Since this generation is on such a fast track, perhaps they will have it all figured out these perplexing questions by the time they reach 40, which in our world won't even be middle age, but what was, in the past, considered to be the 20's.

Phobias

2007-10-15T05:56:00.000-07:00

It's no secret I'm riddled with phobias, some which are so acute but are not classified since they are so uniquely my own. Out of those that are classified, there's my aichmophobia, coulrophobia, and ondontophobia. This weekend's trip to D.C., or rather, the suburb of D.C., where my in-laws reside, brought my amaxaphobia to light.

D.C. and Los Angeles are more similar than people realize. Both are one industry towns. And power is the name of the game. Both are cities that can't shake its parochialism, no matter how hard its desperate attempts. And each suffers from the debilitating, mind numbing traffic snares of the urban-suburban sprawl. True, D.C. has a much better public transportation system, but that's not saying much since LA's is a joke. Again, LA is the only city where the bus riders are unionized. They're the only riders in the country, if not the world, where they filed a lawsuit against the MTA, and won.

We arrived at Dulles where we picked up the rental car we were going to use for the weekend. And that's when my anxieties about driving, now cemented into a full-blown phobia during these two months of being car less, came to light. D.C.'s myriad of freeways was what made my husband realize my fear had taken on a new form. This new phobia's not at the stage where I am debilitated, yet. But I can see how this will turn into a big deal in my life, where I will spend an inordinate amount of time figuring out ways to get to places without having to spend much time in a car, particularly on freeways.

It's not fair to blame my phobia on LA. The euphoria of this new found freedom of being 16 and a driver was short lived for me. I was involved in two car wrecks in high school, both where the recklessness of the other drive caused the crash. The sound of metal on metal, the thundering roar of broken glass are sounds hard to shake from one's memory. Each crash was probably the start of a tiny fissure in the youthful immortality and invincibility you feel when behind the wheel of a car. The brand new Jetta, a high school gift from my parents, sat unused while I attended college in D.C. Unlike some of my peers, the thought of living in Chevy Chase or Crystal City where a car was necessary simply didn't enter my mind. I stayed all three years in Foggy Bottom and happily used the zoned cabs of D.C. My junior year in London was an extension of this life where a car was unnecessary to living since I chose London and the University of London instead of any of the other universities outside London.

Yet, my fears hadn't gotten the best of me. I was the woman, fearless enough to whip down I-95 from New Haven to D.C. for quick weekends when I was working at Yale University Press. And the same woman who drove cross country across the expanse of 3000 miles in her new Acura, feeding the cassette player with the mixed tapes of my college life since all the radio stations east of the Mississippi played the honky tonk country of 20 years ago. How this woman morphed into the woman, having a full blown panic attack in the car as my husband maneuvered the traffic of D.C.'s 495, is hard for me to reconcile.

Yes, I'd grown to detest, on a level unlike anything I'd experience, getting behind the wheel for every minute of my life in Los Angeles. And I'd put a ban on freeways at some point. Yes, driving with me to any destination far enough where freeways were a necessity was always interesting, to say the least. And true, I'd had two other car accidents in LA, both where I was the victim--I was at a red light and an old man decided the red light was not red, and the other was, ironically enough, in a cab on a rain-slicked road--. Perhaps it is this sense of control, or the lack of it when you are driving, that has made this new phobia the most acute. It does not help that people view driving as not a primary act, but secondary, if not tertiary to their phone conversation, paper reading, coffee guzzling, and bites of their sandwich.

The paralysis and chest pounding occurs when I'm in a vehicle on those long stretches of road, cars racing at speeds where stopping in time to avoid a crash is impossible, a split second rewriting your life story in ways never envisioned. See, I'm not afraid of dying. But rather, it's the fear of surviving a life altering crash, where you end up debilitated for the rest of your life that makes my hands clammy, my chest tight, my throat closing up. It is this thought, which makes me shrill as I clutch at the hand rail, pleading with my husband to slow down. And in fairness to my dear husband, he does not drive recklessly, no more than any other driver out there. No, my phobia is such that Mother Theresa could be driving the car at the speed of a horse drawn buggy and I would still be screeching at her to slow down.

This weekend's trip has made me think about the rest of my life, and how this phobia will change the way I live my life. I know cars are a necessary evil to our existence. And perhaps living in Manhattan, the easiest city to avoid driving, is not helping me to overcome this phobia, but is in fact making it more acute. When I lived in LA, each car ride was a chore, but I kept my fears in check enough so that I wasn't debilitated by the thought of getting behind the wheel. How could I since I had to drive every single day, every time I needed to get anywhere? But now, my life is such I can avoid cars for many days on end. Strangely enough, I don't feel the panic when in the cab since I've discovered the one way boulevards that cabs travel to be controlled chaos. Yes, my cab could be blind sided by a drunk driver, barreling his or her car through a red light. But I don't let myself think about that too much when I'm sitting in the back of a cab, watching the cityscape passing in a blur outside my window.

Phobias make for an interesting life where you are constantly monitoring your world, your hyper vigilance all in an effort to keep at bay those things that are at the root of your phobia. It can seem, for those blissfully free of phobias, stifling or claustrophobic--a phobia I do have, but not acutely enough since I have no interest in scuba diving or being a magician's assistant. But a fear of cars is one that may be the most challenging. Many therapists over the years have suggested therapies to address my phobias. And I've had no reason to undergo any of these treatments since most of my other phobias are not constant, not in a way a phobia of a car can become. This new one may be the start of me facing down these irrational fears for good. Or not. I may end up the eccentric person who arrives at any destination via train, if available, or plane, or horse drawn buggy whenever possible.

Another School Shooting

2007-10-12T06:12:00.000-07:00

Another school shooting, this time in Cleveland, and another one thwarted in suburban Philadelphia, a town not too far from where I grew up. These tragic events, made all the more profoundly tragic because of the age of those involved, should alert us as a culture to examine where and how we are going so very wrong. But instead, we are focused on Brittany Spear's tailspin, culminating in her children, rightfully so, being taken away from her. And whether or not J.Lo is pregnant--which it seems she is, something I learned while standing in line at a market this morning.

Adolescence sucks, period. I don't think any of us don't bear some of the scars from this hormonal, awkward period of our childhood. This fraught age is made all the more impossible if you are a child who stands out, for whatever reason. I can remember one small, bespectacled boy in my school, who was teased mercilessly by boys and girls--I admit I was one of his torturers. As children, we, at least for me, were just relieved to have found someone else as the prey in this game of catch and torture, so that we become, despite what good kids we are underneath, one of the herd who joins in the fracas in making one child's life a complete misery. It's not right, but it is what happens in childhood.

These games of childhood are damaging, but are they any more damaging today than they were 20 or 30 years ago? What's changed in our world that those who are tortured then turn to violence as a way to avenge the years of torment suffered at the hands of other children? I know the boy in my school must have had murderous thoughts about us all, rightfully so. And whether he had voodoo dolls of each of us in his room is up for conjecture. I do know he suffered in silence until he was able to graduate, heading off to college and a life, I hope, that was less painful. I've never attended a high school reunion, and so I have no idea whether he's ever come back to face those of us who had gone out of our way to let him know we thought he was a complete loser--which he wasn't. He was simply odd, which in childhood could spell disaster for any well adjusted child.

The shock we, the news media fueled, as a country expresses each time something like this happens is too soon forgotten as we go on with our lives. As a mother of a boy--most of the shooters are male, and not always Caucasian, as in the case of the Virginia Tech rampage--I can't help but worry about how to make sure my son's adolescent anger, something predetermined, doesn't turn into violence directed at himself or others. Parents of young children are filled with hope and expectation for their child. None of us can imagine our own child turning into a tragic news column. It simply goes beyond our comprehension. Yet, I imagine, each of the parents of those boys, whose lives and deaths are forever connected to a news tag line, never imagined their child's life turning out quite that way, not when their child had been four, five, playing and obsessed with those things four and five year olds fixate.

Yet, each of these lives did take a turn. And how are we not discussing, or thinking, about how we have gotten to this place where a murderous school rampage has occurred at all, but simply has occurred in, yet, another suburban town? Have we become so inured to violence in general that a school shooting in a high school, an age where a child should only be worried about how or when they're going to lose their virginity, their future spread out in front of them with all the possibilities and limitations of every life, is every day?

It sickens me to learn about each of these killers, kids so tormented they saw no way out. I can't imagine the pain experienced by parents and siblings they've left behind, those now left to bear the loss of their son or brother, but also the shame of what they had done. And then my mind wanders to those kids who were there, those who have survived such a horrific event--it is too unbearable to think about kids so young now having the mark of fear, which will surely be the real shadow in their lives and futures.

School Applications

2007-10-10T11:10:00.000-07:00

We, my husband and I, are in the process of applying for Kindergarten for our 4, almost five year old. Since he has a late fall birthday, we are of the belief that a boy needs a wee bit, try years, more time to mature compared to their female counterparts. It is still amazing to me most of our world is run by men when I see my son and his cohorts in action. We are, in essence, holding him back a year by having him repeat kindergarten at a new school. Yes, we're part of the annoying trend of parents, who do all they can to insure our child will succeed in a life, something increasingly difficult given the early age at which competition starts. The stigma of being held back is no longer such a big deal as parents, even with kids whose birthdays aren't in fall months, are holding their little ones back--to insure they will succeed, of course.

This application process has been illuminating in the monumental differences of quality and quantity of educational opportunities between New York and Los Angeles. The two cities mirrors one another in certain neuroses of the upwardly mobile class. Everyone is out to insure their progeny can get as many advantages in education and enrichment--to churn out the future titans of business. In our present culture, there is a serious disengagement of upwardly parents from the much thwarted public school system. Los Angeles was, by far, the worst I'd seen of parents having completely abandoned a school system so entirely. Most middle class parents, those not wealthy enough to afford the escalating costs of private schools, found themselves truly in the lurch as the idea of a neighborhood school became another casualty of urban life.

True, Los Angeles suffers from the devastating affects of Prop 13, and the unforeseen surge of the immigration population, whether legal or not. This has created whole swaths of public schools in dire need of so much that the middle class citizenry has decided is not worth putting the effort into changing. With the grim situation of public schools, you would think the private institutions would be competitive with their counterparts throughout the country.

Let's just say that when we were going through the application process for Pre-K programs, there were so few schools that were options. In fact, the one truly noted school--noted as in it is ranked nationally, although not in the top ten or anything--was a school started by psychologists. How this institution became the most prestigious place to send a child still baffles me. This school, overrun with celebrities and the Hollywood elite, is the place that everyone in the city tries to get their little one into. The rest of the schools are supposedly second tier compared to this one school. Whether a child is better off because he or she attends this uber-privileged school is still to be determined. What's ironic is this 'prestigious' school in Los Angeles is not recognized one iota here in New York. If you were to tell people your child had attended this school X, most people look at you with not the faintest glimmer of recognition. It's not as if you had told them your kid had gone to Exeter, Andover, or even Hotchkiss. Even Harvard Westlake, the most difficult school in Los Angeles, is not recognized here. This may have something to do with the East Coast snobbishness about all educational institutions not within their borders, or it may truly be indicative of the gulf in quality between LA and the East Coast.

So, here we go again in New York, a city so vastly different in tone and anxiety in this arena of determining our child's future--as if such a thing was possible. We have applied to ten schools, most with stellar reputations. This large number is what amazes us, that we would have so many options, whittled down from an even larger list. What's also vastly different is the number of good, decent public schools available in the city, if we decided that was the way we should go with our son.

But for an island so small, it is astounding to see so many schools, elementary to colleges and universities here, period. It feels like every other block has another school or university, its banner blowing in the wind. All of the emphasis on schools makes me think there is something real and tangible in how and why Los Angeles differs so greatly from its East Coast counterpart. What is in that Los Angeles water, actually derived from Colorado, that makes education such an afterthought? It makes sense that Villaraigosa is the mayor of Los Angeles, a man who barely finished high school, attended a community college before finally making it to UCLA. His law degree came from an uncredited law school, perhaps explaining why he never passed the bar exam, and is therefore not licensed to practice law. His counterpart in New York, Mayor Bloomberg, has an educational resume far different: Johns Hopkins, Harvard Business School. This isn't to dissect their backgrounds, but really to dissect the citizenry that voted these two people into office. The question, one that begs to be answered, is would either candidate stand a chance if they were to switch cities?

Would the staid, geeky demeanor of Bloomberg be enticing enough for the people of LA to vote him into office? And would the flashy, quick grinning Villaraigosa be enough to get New Yorkers to vote for him as their mayor? An interesting thought, if you think about it.

This hyper-focus on education can be a bit overwhelming. I say this as I head off to my first interview for a potential school for my son. This bit of the process is stressful, making the hours we agonized over our essay for the applications, seem innocuous in comparison.

Nanny New York Style

2007-10-10T06:06:00.000-07:00

After much time, we have found a part time babysitter for our son. Unlike his Tia, this woman is not meant to replace me by any means. Instead she helps me to do a bit more work during two afternoons a week since she picks him up from school and takes him to his Tae Kwon Do. This city, haven or home to so many foreigners, is where nannies of every complexion can be witnessed. The West Indian women with the lilt in their words, Indian women, Filipino women, and the Latinas are the caretakers to countless children, rearing kids who may not yet understand the significance of these women to their lives.

This time out, our nanny is not another Latina, but an East Indian Guyanese. When she told me she was Guyanese, I asked how it was there were Indians in Guyana, formerly known as British Guyana, a country, ironically enough, where my husband spent some time as a child. She answered with a smile on her face, "See, my people--Indians, were slaves brought over to Guyana from India." To which, I could only say, "I see." My post-colonial theorist head was already screeching, "Those f**king Brits," but I figured such an outburst would not have helped me in getting this woman to commit to working for us.

A Hindu woman as a nanny is a first for our family. And with a Hindu in your home, there are many considerations. For instance, on the days she is here, I find myself cooking vegetarian meals or meals with chicken or fish. The whole beef brisket thing seems inappropriate since cows are sacred to them.

One forgets how many Indians live on the Eastern seaboard. With the exception of the short block on Pico where Indian shops selling saris indicates a smallish Indian community, New York and the surrounding cities is home to many, many Indians. My school, not exactly a multicultural place, did have a fair number of East Indian kids by the time I reached high school.

My son is adjusting to having this new addition to his life. There is less resistance to her when she arrives at school to pick him up. Last night, he actually asked she not leave. He, being super color conscious, did point out she was "browner" than he. The significance of his sitter being darker is something I don't understand yet. Perhaps some day I will. But most likely not. That is my greatest regret: to never fully understand his experience of being brown in color. And how that colors the way the world deals with you or not.

Beach Towns--Southern California

2007-10-09T04:52:00.000-07:00

Redondo Beach, Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, all towns south of Los Angeles, centered around the fact they are adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. These towns are nondescript, squat--much like all of Southern California, and indistinguishable from one another other than the town markers alerting you to the fact that you have now left Hermosa and are now in Manhattan Beach, that is. With the exception of the grandiose houses built along the waterfront, blocking out the panorama of the Ocean for those who can't afford such beauty, the towns are a string of small store fronts and ugly apartment buildings with names like Windward Court. These names, and the places attached to the names, were places I'd vaguely heard mentioned, but never compelled enough to go visit. That's the irony about Southern California and its beaches.

Despite the azure of the water lapping up to land, this body of water and the towns built around the beaches are uninviting. It might have something to do with the fact that the few truly public beaches are crowded, parking nonexistent, or worse, as expensive as a down payment on a beach property--ha. Or worse, the public beaches are not available to those who weren't lucky enough or crooked enough to have paid off some official to have a home built right on the water's edge, thereby blocking any, and all public access to this public beach. David Geffen being the worst offender of this offensive deed. This division of those with, and those without is a recurrent theme in the culture of California, particularly Southern California. The only silver lining in this inequity is those homes on the water front are subject to all of Mother Nature's fury. And I say, bring that fury on. Let those homes burn, slide, and be crushed with a true Tsunami. Yes, they're worth fantastic sums of money, but again they are built on land that is not rightfully the owners'. Let the homeowners, those complicit souls, deal with this sticky issue with their insurance carriers when trying to collect on their ten million dollar home.

My time back in LA, the city experienced behind the windshield of our compact sedan, only reinforced what I'd always thought and expressed ad nauseum--this city lacks character, and is downright ugly. There is very little real charm to the row upon row of houses, some uglier than others, and strip malls with stores for pet salons--don't get me started--and other businesses that somehow survive the fleeting loyalty of the population. What I'd noticed this time was a film of dust over the sun filled setting. It makes sense that this film of dust would be ever present since this land was once the desert despite the contrary behavior of everyone who lives there. Yes, there are enough trees and flowers, each garden an attempt to replicate regions, gallons and gallons of water wasted to keep the blooms flowering.

Perhaps the offense of the city's ugliness would be tolerable if it didn't also live up to its stereotype of vacuousness culturally, intellectually. Let's start with the Los Angeles Times, the largest paper in the city, a city that is number two in population in the United States. During my five days there, I scoured the paper for real pertinent news. The recent human rights abuses in Myannmar, formerly known as Burma, was never covered. But they did a thorough expose of the uproar of the crazy denizens of Santa Monica, their outrage about ficus trees covered assiduously as one would cover the real life threatening issue of the shortage of health care facilities in this city.

There is some equality among those who have and those who have not in one area. See, if a pandemic were to occur, a highly likely scenario given the city's porous borders, everyone, and I mean everyone, rich, poor, insured, uninsured, will all be f***ed. The dearth of hospitals, a tad bit more relevant than the dearth of public parks, would create a scenario of devastation that no one wants to discuss, other than KPCC. The fifty cent tax hike, which could have offset such a disaster, was voted down by the entire state in the last election. Yes, foresight is what the citizens of that state have in spades. But then, the state's problems, a myriad of them, are a result of its citizenry thinking, deluding themselves into believing they can legislate for the entire population. Prop 13 anyone?

A friend asked me if I missed LA. Hmmm....how can I lie? This question, posed to me on more than one occasion, is answered by a sh*t eating grin on my part, and a gleeful response of, "No!" I know, it is childish and a bit churlish for me to be so happy to have left. Despite the litany of offenses of this place, it was where friends, great friends were made. And yes, I would never go back, but it is a place that is home to some of the dearest in my life. And hence, the conundrum of it all.

LA Whirl

2007-10-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

The real reason for our journey to LA was a wedding for one of my husband's LA colleagues. She is normally a very reasonable person, but then the most reasonable woman turns into something quite unreasonable when getting married. Or rather, she turns into a SheBride, the operative word being bride since once the event, a culmination of months and months of planning, ends in a few short hours. Hopefully for the groom's sake, once the bouquet has been tossed and caught by some other hapless singleton, she will return to her former reasonable self. I thought watching the groom and bride seal the deal in that long-held tradition of kissing, 'and so it begins.' See, for all the marrieds out there, the fun truly begins once your lips have touched. But so be it for any of us cynical marrieds to thwart her certainty that married life will be more than she had ever dreamed. Yes, more being the key here.

I know she had spent countless hours planning this event with painstaking details. And since we're in Southern California, she had planned with the reassurance the wedding day would arrive with the sun rising at its usual hour and setting at another expected hour. It seemed Mother Nature had something else in mind as the hundred or so guests shivered in our various states of undress or dress of evening attire. Gale force winds,which felt like a Hurricane on the precipice we were perched, were making the waves of the Pacific resemble a tsunami. The rest of the event like all weddings had normal reasonable people drinking too heavily, the barely edible meal gobbled up in a wine or hard liquor fog.

What struck me about this wedding was the hodge podge of religious symbols the couple along with their Minister had decided upon. There was a reading from Rainer Maria Rilke's, "Letters to a Young Poet," which the officiant erroneously referred to as a poem. Yes, Rilke was a poet, but this little tome, much beloved by those seeking artistic freedom--usually devoured and read as religion for those who are seeking validation to pursue whatever 'artistic' pursuit--was read along with the expected poem from Pablo Neruda, whose poems are all a meditation on love, and St. Paul's Letter to the Corinthians. This non-denominational, religious potpourri was capped off with an American Indian blessing. Neither the bride or groom are Indian, that any of us had ever known. This service is much like most California outdoor weddings where religious symbols are chosen and discarded to fit some homogenized religious smörgåsbord. With that said, this service leaned a bit more toward the Christian half, which I'm assuming was the religious background of both groom and bride. If they were of the truly United Nations approach to religion, I'm sure a Hindu or Sanskrit reading would have been included. But alas, this service's only nod toward the non-traditional--signaling a wee bit of Liberalism for the couple--was that strange Indian blessing.

The flight home was interminably long. When LA was home, the flight Eastward seemed bearable since I was usually thrilled to be heading back. The return flight back to LA never felt long enough since I was usually reluctant to go back after however many days away from the sun soaked city. This time, the flight there felt quite short, but the flight home was another story. Each of us, despite having a good enough time, was anxious to get home. For my son, his impatience had less to do with home as the two suitcases crammed full of birthday toys from his LA friends. The five hours felt like ten. There is that moment when you're trapped on an airplane where you can understand those stories of people losing their sh** on a flight, having to be restrained.

As our driver headed toward the Mid-town tunnel, Manhattan in all its steel glory stood, welcoming us back home after our long journey. I could only think about that indelible image in Woody Allen's "Manhattan" where the city seemed to burst forth from the ground in all its beauty with Gershwin playing in the background. And now, this place full of so much mystery and beauty is our home.

LA Life

2007-10-04T08:30:00.000-07:00

My son and I made the five hour journey, both of us kept amused by different things: my son with his portable DVD player, me with a stack of trashy magazines. The flight while long was uneventful, the food now only available by purchase, drinks sparsely doled out during the long flight, the movie something no one had seen or ever wanted to. Air travel, unless you pay for the luxury seats up front, has become completely utilitarian. We landed, the plane descending over a squat structures, which seemed to stretch for miles. My irritation was almost instantaneous upon landing. Yes, the sun was shining, the temperature that mild, temperate 70 something degrees. The baggage claim, notoriously slow, was much faster this time, so our bags were retrieved in a timely fashion. A car was rented, one of those nondescript sedans that is only memorable if in a bright color, and soon we were headed north on the roadways of LA.

Fear is not the apt word to describe how I feel when driving here. It is much more complicated than that, which has been, unfortunately for the readers, exhaustively detailed and chronicled on this blog site. Needless to say, many cars whizzed past us, their annoyance so noticeable in how close they were to our slow moving vehicle when they passed.

My son was beyond excited to see his Tia. And she equally excited. There were phone calls exchanged, plans for pick up as I realized how fruitless it would be to stand in his way of spending time with this woman who had figured so prominently in his little life. My feelings were a bit hurt to see his anxiousness, something I had assumed children only reserved for their mothers and fathers. I know all of this was irrational, but then the emotional avalanche of being here was making me less sanguine about any of this.

My friend, who is graciously putting us up, and I caught up effortlessly. It felt seamless how easily we fell into conversation, as if these last three or so months since I departed was a mere blip. There are many more reunions planned for today. Many more opportunities for me to feel the observer, watching all of it unfold without me really present.

LA Bound Again

2007-10-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

We are heading to LA for a wedding and to see friends, who are not yet 'old,' but simply friends. I have a calendar full of coffees, lunches, therapy, and dinners. In the midst of all the social whirl, we are throwing my son his 5th birthday party with friends from his preschool. It has been a trip on our calendar since finding out we were relocating to New York. How I feel about going back is still something I'm contemplating. There's no doubt I'm thrilled to see friends, to catch up, and to see my son happy to have a birthday party attended by friends he's missed.

However, I've not yet nostalgic about the city, its environs, by any means. There hasn't been enough emotional distance or time to eviscerate my general antipathy about this place I had grudgingly called home for so long. Yet, I can't seem to fully remove the tentacles of my former life as I meet friends of friends from LA, the ties between East and West becoming significant for other reasons.

So, we will leave this island, something we haven't done since arriving that early Sunday morning from the Vineyard. A jet plane will take us three hours backwards to a land full of sunshine and palm trees. My son is undoubtedly excited about seeing his Tia, his nanny. She is equally excited, having cleared her calendar for our entire trip. This reunion is sure to be a happy one. Our four days will zoom by, my days spent behind a car wheel, muttering about having to drive once again. Then the day will arrive when we will be picked up my our usual driver to take us back to the airport.

For some of our friends, they will convince themselves our move was merely temporary since we have come back so shortly. For others, they may realize how fruitless such delusions as they say 'goodbye' to us yet again. This farewell will, for me, feel more like the real one since I will know it will be a long while before I head westward again.

The quiet of the phone will again signal the end for most of these relationships. Most of the people in LA will now regard us as another family that had lived there but now live in New York. We, our family, will take a place in the New York mythology, a way for people to grapple with the many symbols of this place so familiar to us through the loving homages of Woody Allen movies, yet so unfamiliar and scary for those that have no intimate experience with it.

I hold my breath now as I ready my son for our long journey back. Sleep, such an elusive thing, has been even more elusive the last four days, an appropriate preparation for the emotional stirrings this trip is having on me. I know all of this will settle into a muted strain as I get our bags, our rental car, and drive to my girlfriend's house for a loving reunion. And a loving reunion it will be with so many. I pray it will be so.

Strand Books---Died and Went to Heaven

2007-10-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

I'd been holding back from venturing to Strand Books, knowing it would make me nostalgic for all of my books in storage, and that I would, invariably, end up lugging home more books--a big no, no in this apartment. But living so close to it, this mecca for bibliophiles, the lure finally pushed me to go there holding my breath in anticipation and fear.

Let me say for those not here in the city, the weather has been glorious, which we will undoubtedly pay for in January and February. I scheduled a Mommy Alone time for Saturday by getting a massage at a very nice place by the New School. And then I walked around, still marveling that I'm here--I know, I know, it is an annoying refrain indeed--Union Square, passing Jon Stewart talking to someone while holding his young child. If anyone is now synonymous with the quintessential witty New Yorker, it must surely be Jon Stewart. I walked eastward when I stumbled upon the greatest flea market on Broadway. It is at moments like this that I sigh in sheer happiness. How could it be that this remarkable flea market full of junk I don't need--there was one vintage clothier selling fur wraps at a very good price--would be on the very block as Strand Books? Could life be any more perfect?

Reminiscent of my time in Camden Town, London, I walked up and down gazing into stalls selling Pashmina shawls for $5, African bric a brac, the Gyros stand tantalizing you with wafts of lamb, the stall selling toys made in China, another stall chock full of hand bags of every shape and size, and more food stands. This curious browsing was an effort to stall my entrance into this very large bookstore. But the stalling had to end, so I found myself in front of Strands, starting to pore over the shelves on the sidewalk, selling books for a $1. Yup, cheaper than any cup of coffee in town. There's no point telling anyone I found a few things I had to buy. There was the old collection of John Donne's poems, the Amish cookbook--a fetish of mine, really--an absolutely unblemished old copy of Kate Chopin's "Ethan Frome," and a history book of the precolonial slave trade.

The old cliche says something about 'telling a book by its cover,' when in fact you can tell a great deal by what people read. Whenever I'm in someone's home, the first thing I find myself doing is poring over their book shelves. Quite like music collections, books reveal the quirks, obsessions, and tastes of its reader and listener. Unlike art, which is purchased and displayed for public effect, books and CDs are much more personal, intimate. It's as if you had gone into someone's lingerie drawer and were given free reign to roam about, noticing the discolored panties, the boxers with spots. Nothing warms my heart more than to walk into a house that has a nice, healthy collection of books, obviously read and not purchased for appearances. One has to be very suspect when you see a neatly lined bookcase, all the books in uniform leather bound covers of titles you're certain the purchaser had never read in the original, much less the Cliffs Notes version. It says something about this person, does it not?

If there are no shelves filled with even those pulpy novels you buy on the racks in airports, well, let me stop there. No need to comment further. Reading is so many different things to different people, but the most important aspect of this act is in the use of imagination, of hope, of anticipation when you open a book.

I was once at a friend's, whose bookshelves were full of self-help tomes, and not much else. It was an illuminating moment for me in this long relationship. I had to ponder how it was we were such good friends when she didn't read, it seemed, anything but those self-help books, which were obviously not doing much in curing her of the normal ills of an unhappy person. The state of her shelf made me sad really since she was someone who could do with a dose of imagination, hope, and anticipation.

I had to do the most cursory browsing of the first floor, not able to engage in a thorough inspection of each shelf. See, this new life of leisure I've created for myself meant I had to be home by a certain time to wait for the grocery delivery I had scheduled. But this quick stop at one of my most anticipated places in the city was enticing enough to last till the next time I can go fully armed with time.

Blind 'Friend' Dates

2007-09-29T11:46:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-28T04:56:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-27T04:49:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-25T12:51:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-24T04:37:00.001-07:00

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

2007-09-21T04:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-09-20T04:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-19T04:32:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-15T06:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-14T04:30:00.000-07:00

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.