Blind 'Friend' Dates

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

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

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

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

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

Play Dates

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

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

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

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

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

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

The New Graying Parent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harlem Renaissance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cultural Woes

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

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

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

Everything Delivered, Truly

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

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

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

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

Everything is a Competition

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

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

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

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

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