it's technically satire—but so not

from The Onion. sadly, this is just a typical day of traffic around here.

someone posted a link to this story from The Onion on Facebook today and i just read it and it's making me want to start packing now. maybe it's the awful, relentless, stifling heat this week; or the fact that i was in wide open spaces only a few days ago and feeling so much happier; or maybe i'm just having a bad day. whatever it is, a big part of me wishes this would happen. that we could all quit pretending we LOVE living here, that the rest of the world is missing out by living where they live, and that we're totally wasting our money to live in cramped quarters. oh, and that part about the exhaust fumes seeping through open windows is so true. our apartment often has a thin layer of grime just from the BQE. IT'S NO WAY TO LIVE! 


mbm

(dis)orientation

the building on the right was my first
home away from home.

and so it's September.

many people i know are morose about the 'end' of summer (check your calendar, people—we've got three more weeks!) but i have always loved this time of year. i know i've waxed poetic here before about wishing i could go back to school—like third grade—but this year i decided to revisit one of the more harrowing back-to-school experiences i ever had.

starting college.

Michael and i took a little road trip over the weekend. i was in my usual spot in the passenger seat, gazing out the window at the gorgeous scenery of northwestern New Jersey and central Pennsylvania. at one point we passed a car driven by a girl who looked like she was college-aged, and her car was packed with stuff: blankets, boxes, a TV lodged in the front seat. considering it was the last weekend in August i figured she was moving onto a campus somewhere. and that got me thinking how it was almost exactly fifteen years ago that i was moving into Vander Poel Hall at Hofstra University.

oh. man.

i thought my transition to college would be easy and awesome. i had high hopes for myself and my new life. i was excited and enthusiastic and ready to go... until my parents pulled away in their newly-emptied car.

i have never done well with big life transitions—i've entered each one pretty much kicking and screaming. but this one really knocked me on my ass. i remember bits and pieces of my first semester of college and none are particularly happy. in fact, more than a decade later they still make me shudder. i just feel so much for the girl that i was back then. i'd spent most of my life in a smallish town going to school with the same kids every year. to find myself suddenly amongst a bunch of Long Islanders (no offense, but they were night-and-day different from my friends back home) on a pretty huge campus in a part of the country that was so unfamiliar to me, with no idea what i wanted out of life—i mean, holy crap.

i started out as a theatre major, which was my first mistake. i remember looking around during my first class—Production and Lighting or some such thing—and seeing people wearing 1) all black and 2) berets. this intimidated me. i remember thinking, is this what real theatre people wear? i was likely rocking my forest green wool blazer and jeans with a too-high waistline and one of my ill-advised Meg Ryan-style haircuts.

in other words: i did not fit in. at all.

the only thing that got me through the first week of college was knowing that i'd be going home on Friday for Labor Day weekend.

the rest of the semester was a nightmare. i had a roommate who had a long distance boyfriend and also a part-time job at TGI Friday's. she'd come home from her waitressing shifts at midnight or later—when i was already 'asleep'—and talk on the phone to her guy  for two hours. often times she was crying or fighting with him. most weekends she went to visit him, wherever he was, and while you might think that was a blessing, it left me with no one to hang out with. i think your first-semester-freshman-year roommate is your placeholder friend—the one who bridges the gap until you make real friends.

i had no bridge. making real friends felt impossible.

so i trudged through the days, mostly by myself. my favorite days were the ones when i took the train into the city and saw Broadway matinees. i would go to TKTS and buy a ticket to whatever, eat lunch at a diner in Times Square and then see a show. it filled up the hours and also my soul in a way it desperately needed. so far i hated college and i hated Long Island, but being able to take a train into New York City whenever i wanted was almost a fair trade.

i tried to do real college stuff—pep rallies and football games—but it all felt forced to me. despite our football team being pretty awesome, there were about twelve students who attended each game. i hadn't yet dabbled with the social lubricant called alcohol so partying was not an option.

i remember watching a lot of TV. and at one point, mid-semester, my TV died. or, rather, one of the picture tubes or something inside it died. i had to drag it to a TV repair place in Hempstead and live without it for two or three days while they installed the new part.

dear god.

one night over dinner during Christmas break i broke down and begged my parents not to make me go back. i'd thought it out and i wanted to transfer. Hofstra wasn't for me. they listened patiently and asked me to give it one more semester. if i was still unhappy, then we could look into other schools.

i think it was about two weeks into the spring semester when i met my soon-to-be best friend Kerri, got an awesome new roommate named Geev and switched my major to journalism. after that, i never wanted to leave.

all's well that end's well, i guess. but this story is the reason why, when September rolls around each year, i long to buy pencils and notebooks and a new backpack—all the supplies i'd need for another year in grade school—but i never wish i was heading to college for the first time. once was enough!

mbm

one-eighty

so yesterday i saw this article online, something along the lines of '15 reasons the housing market hasn't hit rock bottom yet' or something. i read it with a churning stomach. the forecast is pretty grim. and it certainly doesn't seem like the market will be changing anytime soon. part of the reason we were so gung-ho on house-shopping was this feeling that it was the right time to buy, rates were historically low, who knows how long it will last, etc etc.

but after reading that article—and considering all the angst i was already feeling—buying a house was the last thing i wanted to do. renting for another year seemed downright sensible. (except: not our current place. we now have a furry little mouse lurking around, along with the waterbugs. shudder.) Michael and i talked about it last night, came up with a loose game plan and—whaddaya know? after a stressful week during which i was a lot more wound up than i cared to admit, i felt like a million bucks today. like a weight was lifted from my shoulders.

don't get me wrong... i still long for a beautiful, spacious kitchen. a backyard with a deck on which to sip cocktails when the weather is nice. my very own washer and dryer. and dishwasher! but things are just too volatile right now. home prices are still bloated in this neck of the woods, and if nothing is going to seriously change for another year, it definitely feels smarter to wait, really do our research and find the perfect place to live.

on top of this, i called my Gram today. one of her first questions was, "how's the house hunting going?" i told her, "it's the worst," and she said, "isn't it?" when i told her we were quitting for now she was hilariously relieved. she's always been a believer in us staying put, not relocating to the 'burbs just because we think we should. "you need to be around other young people!" she said today. "you're living life right now!"

lesson learned: we should have skipped the Remax office weeks ago and just gone straight to the real source—Grams.

mbm

home is where i want to be.

this was one of my favorite books as a kid.
wish i could live in this house.
with the animals.

the ironic thing is, i have all this time to write today and yet no idea what to write about. on my busiest days, all i can think about is all the things i want to post here. and how little time i have oh, Alanis. you knew what you were singing about.  

i guess i'll just vent.

our adventures in house-hunting aren't going so well. the prospects seemed to brighten on Friday when we saw a handful of townhouses we liked—even loved. but reality hit soon thereafter. property taxes in this area are tragic, nauseating, disgraceful. who can afford to tack a thousand dollars onto each mortgage payment? just to live in New Jersey? even if we could, i'm not sure we would, if only on principle.

to make matters worse, i've woken up in the middle of the night a few times this week, worry about random things such as:

- when i live in the 'burbs and have to drive to the train or bus station, what if it snows? i hate driving in snow. it scares me, to be honest. i'm out of practice. what if i can't do it?

- how will i exercise? after the mortgage payments and furnishing the place, it's not like i'll be able to splurge on an elliptical for the basement. will there be a gym nearby for me to join? will i have time to drive to a gym before work? will i have the energy to go there after work? contemplating this one gives me more anxiety than it should.

- are we really even supposed to live around here? is it worth all the cost and hassle? is it time to make a clean break? or are we just supposed to rent for the rest of our lives? 

i wish i were braver about this whole thing. i put on a confident, happy front and hope for the best, assume it will all get worked out. but the truth is i have no idea. i just read something i wrote on here three years ago about wishing i were a simpler kind of person, one who wanted less out of life, who was okay with settling. it seemed a foolish thing to write, even though it was how i felt. and, actually, i still feel that way. right now everything seems like so much pressure—our apartment is too small and too old to spend much more time there; the mortgage rates are at historic lows; the housing market is primed for buyers. it feels like we should be having our way with real estate right now. yet something isn't clicking. nothing is feeling exactly right.

and i just don't know what the answer is.

if i were less of a spaz—a simpler sort of person—i'd be able to just relax and trust that the answer will come in time. maybe before i start packing boxes and calling the moving van i should work on myself, on segueing from spastic to simple.

which may be—ironically—the only mission more impossible than finding the perfect home.

mbm

forgive my rambling, i had to get this out

the proposed site of Park 51

i had not paid much attention to the whole 'mosque' controversy prior to a couple days ago, mostly because i think 99.9 percent of what's reported on the news is inaccurate, overblown or skewed. i trust that i know what i need to know simply by being awake 15 or 16 hours every day. but i came across a piece on Gawker.com yesterday about what is actually near the 'hallowed' WTC site, posted it to Facebook and got quite a strong reaction. so i thought i'd keep the fire going by writing about my thoughts here.

the first i heard about the 'mosque' (which, from my understanding, is an imprecise term for what is planned for 51 Park Place) was about a month ago via a headline on CNN about a 'tweet' written by Sarah Palin. i know anything Palin weighs in on is bogus—i can't think of a less credible source or a more opportunistic idiot. first, she takes to Twitter to voice her opinions. second, she made up a word while composing the 'tweet' (ugh, i hate the whole concept of Twitter, so hard).  anyway, right off the bat i didn't take the whole 'mosque' story seriously, at least not the controversy part. if anyone is 'tweeting' about an issue—especially a politician—i'm just not going to buy into the gravity. i'm old-fashioned that way.

but a friend posted something on Facebook the other day that caught my eye. it was a link to a website called Coalition to Honor Ground Zero. the mission statement of the group begins thus: "We are a coalition of American citizens who are deeply concerned about the proposed building of a mega-mosque and Islamic Center at Ground Zero."

and i had to stop reading. 'mega-mosque'? i get ill, seriously get ill, from the fear-mongering that goes on in this country. yes, it goes on throughout the world, but we're supposed to be better, smarter, freer.

i just finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird. the book is 50 years old this year but it still rings completely, alarmingly true—just in a different way. the people of Maycomb, Alabama heaped all their fear and anger and unease on Tom Robinson. Scout, on a smaller scale, placed hers on Boo Radley. if you read the book, you know how it all turns out. if you haven't read it, read it soon. i implore you. bottom line—the fear was misplaced, unfair and, ultimately for some, deadly.

i was a New Yorker on 9/11. i'd worked in the area for two years and had lived on the Upper East Side for one year. Michael and i were, yes, on vacation on September 11, 2001, but it shook us to our core, and affected us both deeply. we were lucky enough not to lose anyone close to us in the attacks, but we both knew people who died there that day. i saw Ground Zero up close when it was still smoldering, when shards of the WTC facade were still jutting out of the rubble. i stood at the Brooklyn Promenade a week after the attack and watched the smoke still rising, smelled the smells still emanating, saw all the candles burning in remembrance.

my point is, i'm not insensitive to the indelible impact 9/11 had on this city. but i've also been down to the WTC site within the last year. it is a construction site now. there are tourists there who snap photos. there are still reminders of the day, but by and large, it is an area in progress. an area under construction, desperate for rejuvenation.

maybe these people who are terrified and angry over Park 51 should be angrier that, nearly nine years later, there is still no 9/11 memorial. for all the talk, all the plans, all the rhetoric about how those we lost and those who still mourn will have a peaceful, hallowed place to go still don't have that place. and why is that? maybe investigate that, devote a website and an activist group and a march on Washington to that.

i've covered here before my belief that religion basically screws up everything and everyone. not faith. religion. 'religion' seems to be just another means for people to judge, hate, exclude, persecute and, in my humble opinion, create drama (and headlines) for the sake of furthering personal interests. i don't see this 'Ground Zero mosque' situation as any different.

it's not at Ground Zero, it's not a mosque and it's not a slap in the face to the loved ones of the people who died on 9/11. that's my opinion and i'm standing by it. if Park 51 is built and, ultimately, an attack on our country is planned from that building and i am completely wrong about everything i think and feel—well, i honestly would rather be the kind of person who is open and trusting and fearless than the kind who runs around yelling and screaming and tweeting that the sky is falling when it most definitely is not. i think life is more enjoyable when you assume the best of people rather than the worst, even if you're let down occasionally.

another friend shared a link on Facebook to an editorial broadcast by Keith Olberman. take the time to watch it if you're so inclined. it's excellent.

mbm

you know you're getting up there when, part II

i was on a NJ Transit bus on Sunday morning, en route to see some open houses with my dad (who was pitch-hitting for the hubster, who was stuck at work) and a few rows behind me were four girls. they could have been sixteen, twenty or twenty-five (i'm a horrible judge of age now that i'm old myself). they were all chattering and squealing at quite the decibel. i couldn't decipher all of what they were saying—they were talking over each other to the point that i likened them to puppies who jump all over each other when they get excited—but i got the feeling they'd had a Big Night Out in the City and were recapping everything that went on.

and you know what i thought that entire bus ride?

thank god i'm past those days.

i really sat there and thought about it for a good twenty minutes—how happy i am to be beyond the morning-after analyzing of this guy's intentions or that guy's interest in me; rehashing everything i said and rating the stupidity or brilliance of each word. not to mention the freedom from feeling the need to get totally trashed just to have a good time.

something similar happened at my cousin's wedding a couple weeks ago. when the reception was over, Michael and i skipped the after-party and hightailed it up to our hotel room. we got out of our fancy garb, slid under the covers of the glorious king size bed and—watched Seinfeld. until we fell asleep. it was awesome.

but is this weird? is thirty-three an acceptable age at which to mostly-retire from the party scene? am i just old? or is this what married life does to a person? i think i'm okay with it, i just wanted to make sure i wasn't a total loser.

mbm

stage fright

i was just ordering office supplies on staples.com for our new hire starting on monday and typed in the word 'pens' and had a horrible flashback.

during the summer of 1994 i spent six weeks at Carnegie-Mellon University as a student in their pre-college theatre program. it was a crazy, educational and totally fun experience—and my roommate became one of my favorite and undoubtedly forever friends—but there was one part of the whole shebang that might have scarred me.

there was some class or workshop—i think it was playwriting—in which we cast fellow students in our own short plays. i was cast in one called "PENS!" if you read that too quickly and thought it was actually part of the male anatomy, you have the right idea.

this is what i remember: a guy named Stephen Kaplan wrote it. i think he played the male character and i played the female character. i don't recall the plot at all. i do know i had to be on stage in a black slip and i had to bite and suck on a pen—"seductively"—and lay across and writhe around on a desk.

the details are hazy, i'm sure because i blocked it from my memory.

i was sixteen years old. i hadn't even made out with a guy yet. (late bloomer.) i had no idea how to be sexy, what the play was really about, or what the hell i was doing. i think Stephen was a fairly talented writer, but his puns and satire and double entendres were completely lost on me. i was about as innocent as they come, a hayseed of a girl in a hard core theatre program with kids from New York and Boston and L.A.

awww.

anyway, i nearly shuddered when i wrote "pens" earlier and had that flashback. amazing the things that stay with you and still, sixteen years later, conjure up the same acute embarrassment and helplessness as if they just happened yesterday.

mbm