WONDERFUL

The other day I went on THE WONDER WHEEL.

 

It is MY BIRTHDAY and I get to do whatever I want. I tell Philadelphia, “We are going to the beach!”

 

“Ok.” he says.

 

I go wake up son. “We are going to the beach!” I say.

 

Son is not as excited as I am. Son is in his loft bed still snoring away.

 

“It’s 10 o’clock!” I say.

 

“I don’t want to go.” he says.

 

“What??!” I say. “No beach?”

 

He mumbles out some teenage mish-mash and rolls over.

 

I step through the cave and into the daughter section.

 

I climb up the loft ladder and wake daughter up. I say, “We are going to the beach!”

Daughter says, “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“What are you talking about? Isn’t that what I just did?” I say.

I climb back down the loft ladder.

 

“Can we pick up Friend from School?” she asks.

 

Ugh. Friend from School lives in totally the other direction from the beach I want to go to. Friend from school lives near Coney Island. In fact, daughter was originally planning on going to Coney Island with FFS.

 

I do not wish to go to Coney Island.

1. There are no waves.
2. Too much Brooklyn.

 

“I don’t think we can drive all the way over there. Just decide if you want to go with her or with us.”

 

And I walk out.

 

I go into the kitchen to begin packing up the BEACH BAG: Towel. Blanket. Crackers. Cheese. Orange. Hummus. Carrots. Water. Boogie Board. Cliff Bar.

 

I go to get the EZ Pass but then Philadelphia reminds me he has one already.

 

“This is soooo great! Driving to the beach! Woo!” I say.

He smiles.

 

It only takes about 45 minutes to get to the beach driving. But if you have no car you have to walk to the subway then grab the beach bus and it takes over an hour. Not to mention hauling all that stuff down the street and in and out of public transportation.

 

Soon we are ready. I yell to the daughter cave, “Well?”

The cave yells back, “Coney.”

 

“Ok!” I say. “See you later then!”

 

We walk down to the car and drag the whole BEACH BAG situation with us. Philly drives and I navigate. I am a good navigator. I never wait until the last minute to tell him when to turn like son does when he is the navigator and I am the driver.

 

We drive. While we are driving the clouds are coming in and out. In and out. I am not sure what shape the beach will be in due to hurricane Sandy. I know the Rockaways were badly beaten up. But I have not been here since last summer.

 

We drive up to the ticket booth guy. The whole parking lot is empty. “$10 please.” he says. Because that is how much it costs to go to the beach for a day.

 

We drive sideways across the parking lot because there are no cars there. We park right next to the walkway.

 

“Wow.” I say. “This place is kind of a mess.”

 

Philly has never been here before. But the place is sadly unkempt. Plus there are sand piles everywhere.

 

“I want a hamburger.” I say.

But when we round the corner the food place is closed!

 

“Oh no!” I say. “No beach fries!”

 

I am sadly disappointed.

 

The upside is the whole beach is empty. This works out since Philly and I have not had a proper honeymoon.

 

“It’s like our own private beach!” I say. And I grab his hand. The one with the wedding ring on it.

 

It is windy so we have to set up the blanket and quickly throw things on the corners so it does not blow away. We do this and then immediately lie down to get out of the wind.

 

“I hope it gets sunnier.” I say.

“Me too.” he says.

 

Now the beach eating begins. Fist the hummus. Then the cheese. Then the orange. I save the Cliff Bar for later.

 

I lie down on the blanket. It IS getting sunnier! But even if it weren’t, I would still be here on my BIRTHDAY with Philly!

 

“I am going down to the water.” I say.

“Ok.” he says. And I see him whip out the camera. I know what is coming. Because that Philly likes to take pictures. Yes he does.

 

I go down and test the water. The tide is way low and the water is not as cold as one might expect at this time of year. I decide to go in.

 

One, two, three and I am in. I quickly duck under a few waves and jump back out again. Maybe the water was a little cold after all.

 

I lie back down on the blanket. The salty air dries me just as the sun starts to come out for reals. I think: The beach is my place. The horizon where the sand meets the sea, the churning waves, all the spaciousness. I know I can give her everything and it will not be too much.

 

I take a moment to be grateful for summer.

 

We stay there awhile, Philly and I. We eat and talk. Pictures are taken. I ask, “Do you want to go now?”

 

“Ok.” he says. “What do you want to do?”

 

“Well, we have the car. We could drive over to Coney Island where daughter is. Maybe we can even go on some rides.”

 

Philly looks a little nauseated.

 

“We don’t have to go on fast rides.” I say. “We could just go on the WONDER WHEEL.”

 

He doesn’t look much better. “I am not big on heights.” he says. “But let’s ride over there, and we’ll see.”

 

We Google map from where we are. In 15 minutes we are there. THE PARKING GODDESS has shone upon us and we get a METERED spot!

 

“Wow! A metered spot!” I say.

Philly walks over to feed the big P for PARKING.

“Remember to thank the Parking Goddess!” I yell.

He nods.

 

And so we start our Coney Island tour. Coney Island, although partially demolished and genriftically rebuilt, is STILL very Brooklyn.

 

I decide I should have a NATHAN’S hot dog. Did you know they give a discount when it is your birthday? I myself, did not.

 

I eat the hot dog. This turns out to be a digestive mistake.

 

We continue the Coney Island tour. Little kids, big kids, barkers, this and that language. Philly has decided to go on the rides! We walk down to the ticket booth to get tickets for the WONDER WHEEL.

 

“$7 please. Each.”

I know, right?

 

We get in the WONDER WHEEL line. Wonder Wheel Guy asks, “Stable or swinging?”

 

“Stable.” Philly says.

 

“Ha!” I say.

 

We get on the white stable car. Slowly, slowly we are lifted into the sky. We can see Brooklyn and Manhattan. We can see the ocean for miles and miles. All around are people on rides and the boardwalk. Smaller and smaller they become.

 

 

Just then the swinging car behind us comes swinging at us like 300 miles an hour and scares the crap out of us,

 

“HOLY CRAP!” I say.

 

“Glad we are not on that one.” he says.

I hold his hand.

 

We look out at the horizon. I feel like I am a million miles over the moon on my birthday, this day of DOUBLE BEACHING.

 

“Are you ok?” I ask.

“Yes.” Philly says.

“Me too.” I say.

 

ME TOO.

25,000 members is not grassroots

The other day son got a checking account.

 

A real, grown-up checking account. With online bill pay and everything. We are getting ready for my move and getting son all set up to be grown-up.

 

It is almost the end of the school day. I text son: Meet me at the bank at five.

 

He texts: OK.

 

Five comes and I walk up two avenues and over three blocks to the bank. Since it is late, it is empty in there. I walk over to the Man at Desk. I ask, “Is this where I can open a checking account for son? He is on his way here right now.”

 

Man at Desk says, “Yes. I will be right with you.”

 

And I sit down to wait on the tidy navy chair with lacquered wooden arms.

 

Man at Desk comes back. I tell him, “I need to open an account linked to mine for son in college. He is going to start paying bills!’

 

MAD smiles. I bet MAD has done at lot of college kid accounts.

 

He asks, “Is he going to be a sophomore in college?”

 

“YES!” I say.

 

Just then son texts me: Here.

 

I look around.

No son.

 

I just KNOW he is standing outsde the bank, texting me.

 

I get up.

 

I text: COME IN.

 

I see him peer into the glass bank door like maybe something in here might be dangerous to his health. I give him the universal wave to COME ON IN.

 

He steps in.

 

“Nice to see you.” I say. Which in mother talk means: You are late.

 

Son sits down on the other tidy navy chair with lacquered arms.

 

MAD starts asking son questions. Son answers the questions. MAD prints out forms. Son sign the forms. MAD gives son the keyboard to enter a username and password. Son takes a LOOONNGG time.

 

He enters one. He erases it. He enters another.

 

“Oh for GOD’S sake!” I say. “Pick something!”

 

He picks something.

Next he enters a War and Peace password the system rejects.

 

I narrow my eyes at him. “Just pick something you will remember.” I say.

 

We move on.

 

“Almost done.” MAD says. He goes over to get the BRAND NEW BANKCARD for son’s brand new account.

 

I look over at son. I can tell he is proud.

 

“Wow. That was fast.” son says.

 

“Ok.” I say. “Let’s go. We have to go to the co-op now.”

 

And we are off to the next grown-up errand. To join son as an adult member and to put me on permanent leave. “I hope you will be able to take my shift!” I say.

 

I have THE BEST co-op shift. It is HELP DESK. I get to sit there and just help people for 2.5 hours every four weeks. I never miss a shift because if you miss a shift at the co-op you are put into a kind of double-make-up-punishment-purgatory. It is VERY difficult to be released from this place.

 

We get to the co-op and we go upstairs. I am a little nervous because things at the co-op are not usually simple. But when we walk in and tell them what we want to do Front Office says, “Ok. No problem.”

 

I almost cannot believe my ears. NO PROBLEM.

 

We start filling out the forms. New Member. Permanent Leave.

 

Then Front Office says, “When are you moving?”

I tell him.

 

“Oh. That might be a problem.” he says.

 

“Why? What?” I say.

“Well, you are moving AFTER your next shift.”

 

Godammit! I KNEW I should have lied!

 

Stupid program ruins everything.

 

Ugh.

 

Now we sit. Because we have to go through some kind of crazy finagling paperwork trick-o-la to make it work out that son can take my shift and not have to actually sign up for a new shift THEN cancel out of that AND switch to my old shift RIGHT BEFORE I leave it.

 

“Welcome to the co-op!” Office Girl chirps.

 

“This is the problem with 25,000 members.” I say.

 

I turn to son.

 

“Why is it that we can set up a BANK ACOOUNT faster than we can set up the co-op?”

 

Son turns to me and says, “Mom. The bank is a huge conglomerate. The co-op is a grass roots organization.”

 

Just like that he says it.

 

‘I do not think 25,000 members is grassroots.” I say.

 

And I circle around the office a few times looking for a parking place.

I look at the iphone. Almost 40 minutes. Just to make a switch at this joint.

 

Finally, Front Office is done.

 

“Is everything ok now?” I ask, hopefully. “Does son have to do anything special when he comes in next time?’

 

“Everything is fine now.” he says.

 

“Let’s go.” I say to son.

 

As we are walking down Union Street I ask him, “Do you feel grown-up?”

“Well,” he says. “I am still not making the money.”

 

Heh. That kid. So practical and CORRECT.

 

“True.” I say. “But you do have a lot more responsibility.”

 

“Yes mom.” he says. “I do.”

 

Yes.

 

He really does.

Look Again

Yesterday I went to a modeling place with son.

 

In case you did not know, on was “scouted” last week in the city.

 

I am skeptical. But son is kind of excited, so we are going.

 

I wake up in the morning and write a note to son, who is still sleeping, now that he is a college student.

 

I write: Remember. 5:30 at the place. Take the A train. Walk west.

 

I go to work.

 

Later I text son: I am leaving now. Are you leaving?

Silence.

I get on the train anyway.

 

When I get off the train there is a text from son: On my way.

 

What a good son I think.

 

I am walking to 39th street. Really it is still a little funky over here, with the tunnel entrance and all.

 

I walk down the street and it gets even funkier. Now I am pretty sure I am on my way to not a REAL modeling agency.

 

You know I am on my way to more of a kind of give-us-money-and-we-will-take-your-picture joint.

 

I stand outside the address, which had a “B” at the end of the number. You pretty much know you are not at a large organization in NYC if the address has a “B” at the end of the number.

 

I buzz.

No answer.

I buzz again.

Still no answer.

I text son: Where are you?

He texts: In here.

I text: What? What? I am buzzing!

He texts: Relax.

 

I HATE when son tells me to RELAX.

 

I text: I am not going to RELAX. I am standing out here in bus fumes buzzing!

Just then a Dapper Young Man with a BOWTIE (could you just die) comes out and opens the door.

 

“Sorry, I did not hear the door.” he says.

 

“Fine.” I say.

 

I walk ahead of him but then I realize I have no idea where I am going.

I stand aside.

 

Dapper Young Man uses his key code to let us into a huge brick walled lofty room that smells like beer. The room has like 7 fans going at high speed, I guess to help kill the beer smell. It also has these huge red chandeliers and rows and rows of leather couches.

 

I look at son. “I think we are wasting time.” I say.

 

“Mom.” he says. “Stop with the momming.”

 

This is what he says when he does not enjoy my opinion.

 

“I am not momming.” I say. “I just have worked in this business and I think we are wasting time.”

 

“We’ll see.” he says.

 

Tiny Accent Girl comes out and hands son a clipboard with a paper to fill out. It has questions about what kind of modeling AND acting son would like to do.

 

“Acting?” I say.

If I could I would raise an eyebrow but I cannot so I do not.

 

While we are filling out papers two people come in who look like Sid and Nancy. I almost say, “Hey! There’s Sid and Nancy!”

 

Heh.

 

Ok, I don’t do that either.

 

“This place shares a space with MTV.” I say.

Actually they really do.

 

Son finishes filling out the paper just as Tiny Accent Girl comes back to lead us upstairs towards the giant red chandeliers.

 

When we get up there we sit down on ANOTHER leather couch. We wait.

TAG comes and sits down and starts showing us a web presentation.

 

TAG is very small. But she is trying very hard. I try to look at son to give him the see-we-are-being-sold-something look. But he will not look back.

 

Now Curly Ponytail Guy comes out from behind the curtain and shakes our hand. He sits down and starts telling us about the company, how they are not an agency, rather they PROMOTE talent.

 

I am quite sure this promotion is for a fee.

 

He is talking about son’s all American look and headshots, photographers, art directors and designers.

 

I listen, anyway.

 

Just as I am about to call it too-long-of-a-pitch he hands me the pricing card for their services.

 

Aggressively.

 

As in. “ Which package would be best for you?”

 

I hand it back to him. I am wearing my Brooklyn Girl Roller Derby shirt.

 

“We’ll have to think about it.” I say.

 

I stand up.

Son stands up.

 

“Well, let us know!” he says, smiling.

 

When we get outside I laugh. I tell son, “That guy was like 30!” I almost say: What a waste of time.

 

Son smiles. He walks straight and proud.

 

I look at him.

I look at him again.

Still smiling.

Then I think: Maybe this was not a waste of time after all.

 

Chuck it

The other day I started a chuck-it bonanza with Philadelphia, you know, AKA the BF.

 

We are in the car driving from NYC to Philadelphia. I warn him, “You really are going to have to let things go.”

 

“I know. I know.” he says.

 

He really will have to let stuff go. Because Philadelphia has a LOT of stuff. Sometimes when I really look the amount of stuff he has I think: I do not believe Philly has ever thrown anything away.

 

I tell him, “I am not sure you have ever thrown anything away.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

Just like a teenager.

 

Philly likes to pile his stuff. So not only does he have everything he has ever acquired, he ALSO plops things down wherever he happens to plop them.

 

Some people are comforted by their stuff.

 

I myself am a chucker.

 

But since Philadelphia is Philadelphia and is about the most generous person in this world and others, he is allowing this chuck-fest, even though he is a piler.

 

We arrive on Tuesday evening. It is late but I think it would be good to just get one room done. I choose the bathroom, since it is smallest. Philly says ok.

 

In the bathroom there are many, many shelving units. Shelving units that have maybe on one thing on them. Maybe two. I take all of those shelving units out of there.

 

Philly says, “Where will we put stuff?”

 

“Don’t worry.” I say.

 

I don’t REALLY have a total plan yet but I know how the space magic works. I trust the space magic. Over and over in my life the rearranging and the letting go has worked out even when I was terrified and could not see the end.

 

Next day comes and we begin on the bedroom. We take up the carpet and move the furniture around. Bring things up. Bring things down. When we are done you can see the beautiful old pine floors. I feel so happy I almost cannot stop working.

 

I go upstairs to the sacred room on the third floor. This room has PAPER. Lots of paper. I start organizing and sorting. Slowly a beautiful frosted glass desk appears.

 

Who knew it was under there.

 

Meanwhile, Philly is working in the basement. The basement has miscellaneous everything. It is not pretty. I stay away from there and let him do his thing.

 

Somewhere in here, we eat.

 

Day 1 ends. Still we have the whole first floor, now full of everything from the other floors AND the rest of the basement. Oh yeah, and the yard.

 

Not sure how we will do all that but I try to muster up the trust of the space goddess.

 

Day 2 starts late since Day 1 ended late.

I CANNOT believe it when we wake up at 9am.

 

9AM!

 

I have ideas for the two downstairs rooms, but they involve major furniture moving. I am expecting some resistance upon the receipt of this news but I encounter none at all.

 

Philly just says, “Ok. Let’s do it!”

 

God, I love him.

 

We do it. That and a whole bunch of other stuff. We are on fire baby! In half the day we have the basement and one of the rooms done.

 

“We can finish this.” I say.

“Yeah.” he says.

 

When he says yeah I fell like throwing him on the floor and kissing his whole head. But ok, I don’t because that would be really distracting.

 

We keep going.

 

We start moving books down stairs. I can see this is hard for Philly. I remember letting go of a lot of books and how much I felt like I did not know who I was without proof of my history.

 

“It will be ok.” I say.

“Ok.” he says.

 

Because he is like that. Flexible.

 

We bring all the books down and get ready for the last push. The last push is always the hardest. All those little items straggled around and almost no energy left to categorize and spatially relate.

 

Somehow, we make it. Done by 9pm. Indian food ordered to eat in our brand newish dining room.

 

“When did we start this?” he asks.

“Tuesday night.” I say.

“Wow.” he says.

“Yeah.” I say.

 

“Tomorrow the yard.” he says.

“Yeah.” I say.

 

I go back to eating. When he is not looking I peek up at him over the candles. I think: This is the most beautiful generous man in the whole wide world.

 

And then I think: AND he knows how to rock the chuck-fest.

And that’s my kind of guy.

Yeah.

TEAMWORK

Last night I went to daughter high school parent-teacher conferences.

 

If you live here in NYC, and you have children, you may have some experience with the stampeding insanity that high school parent-teacher conferences can be.

 

It is not pretty.

 

It is 4:45 and I am just about done teaching after school. I text daughter: Have you left the house? You have to meet me here. Leave now.

 

Daughter is supposed to meet me here at school so we can team it for PT conferences. We will leave straight away to get on the R train to the Q train to turn back around and go to Avenue M. Because that is how you have to do it. There is not one train that goes from where we are to where we need to be. One has to back track.

 

I hate back tracking.

 

However a car service is $14. So we plan on the back track.

 

4:50 and daughter arrives. We walk to the R train. Daughter does this ride every weekday. Daughter says, “We should go to DeKalb and transfer.”

 

I say, “But that is one stop past Atlantic and we can transfer at Atlantic.”

 

“Yeah, but at Atlantic we have to walk through the whole terminal.” she says.

 

I look at her. I say, “I don’t know if I agree with this idea. I mean, seems like a time waster.”

 

“Mom.” she says. “I do it everyday.

 

I go with it.

 

When we get past Atlantic the train starts to crawl. I think: I KNEW this was a bad idea. We could be walking over to the Q right now but instead we are sitting in this stupid tunnel. AND I bet the Q is passing us by right this very minute on the way to the Atlantic Avenue stop.

 

I turn to daughter. I say, “I KNEW this was a bad idea. We could be walking over to the Q right now but instead we are sitting in this stupid tunnel.”

 

She gives me the daughter-look-of-death face.

 

I shut up.

 

Finally we get to DeKalb. Ok, I cannot help myself. I tell her, “Atlantic Avenue is a hub. Trains crawl in and out of there. This is a time waster. You should not do it this way. You are wasting time.”

 

Whatevs. We get on the train. Newkirk, Avenue H, Avenue J, Avenue M. Daughter is making fun of the new trains with the little automatic pleasant voice. So different than the old crunchy garbled–never-to-be-understood NYC Subway Person announcements.

 

“Avenue M” the voice says. And we get off the train.

 

2 blocks over and we are at daughter high school. We are a half and hour early but still there are about 30 people clumped together by the school doors freezing their behinds off. 2 security guards stand securing the doors lest we try to charge in early.

 

“God!” I say. “I don’t know how I did this alone all these years when you were both in the NYC public school system at the same time.”

 

And in that moment I have a little chink–in-the-amour moment of gratitude: I DON’T have 2 kids in this system anymore. One is in college. There are no PT conferences in college!

 

WOO!

 

Daughter and I get a room listing for all of her teachers. We plan our route: 1^st Global on the 3rd floor, then Science also on the 3^rd floor, then ELA, then up to 4 for Spanish and down to 1 for Piano.

 

Thank GOD daughter is here. I would NEVER find my way around this institution of 4000 students without her.

 

It is 1 minute till door opening and the crowd has grown considerably. People are beginning to take their perch, readying for the stage crush stampede that will happen when security opens the door.

 

The door opens. The human sea of pushing begins with a bang as we are shoved through the narrow door opening and catapulted into the lobby. I feel like a fish that someone just dumped out of a bag into a fish tank.

 

I find daughter. “Let’s go!” I say. And we scramble past a few meandering parents, up the stairs, around the corner and right to Global.

 

“WOO!” I say.

 

It is 6pm. We are the first ones there.

 

We meet with Global Teacher. I get all the information I need and we take off down the hall for science. We get there and we are SECOND!

 

“I can’t believe it!” I say.

I take a moment to say thank you for this good fortune.

 

3 minutes and we are done with science. Did I mention all you get is 3 minutes?

Yeah.

 

Out the door and down to ELA. And yes! We are SECOND again!

 

“We are rocking this!” I say.

 

She smiles.

 

We see the rest of the teachers AND the guidance counselor and are out of there by 7:03pm.

 

Can you believe it?

 

We eject and hold outside the building just for a moment. I look over at daughter, standing there, all high school accomplished.

 

I give her a little high five.

 

And I think: That daughter. I sure am glad she is on my team.

Yeah.

Sobriety ruins everything

Today I went to the dentist.

 

It has been A DAY with the daughter.

I wish I could tell you about it.

But I cannot.

 

I pick her up from school early and am now dragging her along with me to the dentist.

 

I get there early and they take me in anyway. Early.

I love my dentist.

 

Nice Russian Cleaning Lady asks how I am.

I tell her the daughter story. As much as I can.

 

She feels for me, I can tell.

 

I am sitting in the chair and she is talking. I look at the tray of pointy instruments and I think: What I need is NITROUS.

 

Because after all, I am a little bit addicty.

 

Nitrous is a free ride, right?

 

I say, “In Florida they give nitrous for a cleaning. You know, because of all that high-pitched noise in your head. So nasty really.”

 

She asks, “Does it bother you?” Then she says,  “We can give.”

 

My ears perk right up.

 

“Yeah?” I say. “Because I thought here in NYC I could not get it.”

 

After I say it I realize I should not have said it.

 

Now she hesitates.

 

Dammit.

 

The devil appears on my shoulder: Just ask again. Tell her how much you hate the noise. Tell her how you have sensitive gums. Look very, very scared.

 

Then sober angel appears: Do not do it. You are just looking to get out of your feelings from this day with daughter. You do not need nitrous. No, you do not.

 

I go back and forth, back and forth.

 

Oh ALLRIGHT.

 

For God’s SAKE!

 

Goddamn sobriety ruins everything.

CRASH

Yesterday I had a crash.

I saw the crash coming. But I could not stop the crash because I have a very limited ability to moderate.

All week I have been doing way too much. All week I have been refusing to accept my limitations.

I text my sponsor: I am going to take the after school sub opportunity.

She texts: Aren’t you sick?

I text: Just a little.

She texts: Maybe you should rest.

Do I listen?

No, I do not.

I keep going. Because when you are a 12-step kind of girl, that’s what you do: MORE.

You might think after some years of sobriety, one might learn to do it differently. Apparently, I have to be SMASHED into the wall before I let go.

It is Saturday night and I am toast. It has been too many days in a row of too many people, places and things. I feel like one big walking peeled raw nerve.

I make a few feeble attempts at rescuing myself from the inevitable. I post a message to my beloved FB peeps on our private site. They respond.

This helps a little.

Those FB peeps, they are wise and ready to respond.

I read their comments.

I call Other Program Friend. I say, “I think I have made a few bad decisions. Help me. I have no idea what I am doing. What should I do? GOD! How do other people live life anyway?!”

Other Program Friend says, “When in doubt, abstain.”

“Abstain?” I say. “Abstain?”

GAH! I know she means well but I feel like I am about to blow a gasket.

Still, I know she is right. What I rally need to do is STOP.

But I can’t stop. Stopping is not really my thing. Obviously. Or I would not be here in this damn program anyway.

I sit down. I miss daughter.

I text daughter: Hi honey.

Daughter texts: Hi mama.

This also helps. I remember I am actually successfully raising children.

I tell Philadelphia, “I think I need a meeting.”

“Ok.” he says. And he takes me to a meeting.

Really, I know I need a meeting. It has been a busy day with a lot of extended family drama and I tried to get a meeting before but when we got to the place there was no meeting and I am in Philly where I am just getting to know the meetings so I don’t know where else to go.

Luckily Lone Guy at Meeting Place tells us, “There is anther meting at 8pm.

I think: UGH. 8pm. That’s two hours away.

We drive home. On the way home we stop at a big suburban market and get a bunch of stuff, including a frozen pizza.

“I am starving.” I say. When we get home I put the frozen pizza in the oven.

The pizza is cooking and I don’t feel like going back out. This s a frequent problem. Need a meeting. Need rest. Need a meeting. Need rest.

Philadelphia comes into the kitchen and says, “You don’t look so great.”

Ok, that’s it. Now I KNOW I need to drag my ass out to the meeting.

“Let’s go.” I say.

We take the slices of pizza and jump in the car. We drive like one drives to the ER with a bleeding head wound.

Somehow we make it there only 1 minute late.

The usual things are read: How it works, the preamble. I feel comforted. I look around. I know only 1 person but I KNOW I really know them all. Because these are my peeps. Because they too have no off switch.

I raise my hand and share. I share about my resentments and uncertainty and trying to know what is the next right action but feeling like I have absolutely no idea what I am doing.

When the meting is over I go around and collect the phone numbers of as many women as possible. Brooklyn meetings have taught me this: Stay connected. It will save your life.

We drive home. I don’t say it but I can feel the swirl happening. It swirls and swirls and when I open my mouth everything just comes dumping out. Right there in the driveway. The EVERYTHING.

I cry until I am empty. I have terrible fear that this EVERYTHING is way, way too much for Philadelphia, or anyone really. But I do not have control. I have smashed myself into letting go and it’s raining crazy emotional candy like a piñata busted wide open with a baseball bat.

After I cry, I sit. Philadelphia is right there. Rock solid.

It’s ok. he says.

“You don’t have to worry. It’s all ok and it’s all ok with me.”

And then he says, “I will never ever leave you. No matter what. You can’t do anything that would make me turn away.”

I just look at him.

How does he know exactly what to say?

I don’t know.

I tell him, “This is how it is for me. It takes a lot for me to let go. Even when I know I should not, I hold on.”

“Its ok.” he says again.

I gather up my wad of tissues. ‘I think I feel better.” I say.

“I’ll bet.” he says.

Because he knew I needed that crash.

That Philadelphia.

Yes he did.

Laptop hazards

Yesterday I rode on an Amtrak train.

 

I was going to take NJT. Instead, I find a great fare and decide to treat myself to the Amtrak train. The only problem is the train leaves at 4:03 from Penn Station. Work ends at 3:10 in Brooklyn.

 

It is a really good fare.

I decide to risk it.

 

Amtrak. NJT. In case you did not know: The difference between these two options is not to be minimized.

 

It is Thursday night. I pack my rolly suitcase to bring with me to work so I can fly out of there right at 3:10. I get out of work and I whisk my rolly suitcase to the street, down the steps and into the R train where I can transfer to the A train right to Penn Station.

 

All is well until the A train stops in the tunnel. And then it starts. And then it stops again. This goes on for what seems like forever but is probably just really 5 minutes.

 

“Geez!!” I say out loud.

 

Subway Lady shifts in her seat and turns to look at me.

 

I shut up.

 

We start. We stop. We start. FINALLY, we go for real.

 

Canal Street, W4th, 14^th Street and then 34^th Street Penn Station. Since it is only 3:50, I am saved from the insanity-Friday-rush-hour crush.

 

I walk to the board. Amtrak 4:03. ON TIME.

 

Woo!

I wait.

I text a few people.

I take out my Bluetooth headset and put it in my ear.

I call a few people.

I figure I am all good with this 4:03 train.

 

I keep looking at the board for the track announcement.

Nothing.

I guess it will be gate 9.

It IS gate 9! I start rolling over there and am shocked when I find a gigantical line.

 

Somehow all these people leaked into the station without me knowing. This line is too long.

 

Ok. I ride the side.

Woman with Huge Rolly case steps out and blocks me.

 

I think: Geez. This is just like that obnoxious SUV guy on the NJ turnpike, but in line form.

Whatevs.

I let her go by.

 

When I get down to the platform it is a race to the train cars to find a seat. I roll my rolly as fast as I can, down a few cars and in. I look down the aisle but most of the seats are full.

 

I think I see a window seat down at the end of the car. I head down there. Older Gentleman stops right in front of me in the middle of the aisle.

 

GOD! I am sure someone is going to sneak in from the back end and nab my window seat.

 

“Excuse me.” I say

Twice.

 

FINALLY, Older Gentleman moves into his seat area. I shove past and beeline for my window seat. When I get there I see Sleeping Guy in the aisle seat.

 

“Excuse me.” I say. “Is anyone sitting here?”

 

Sleeping Guy wakes up and tells me, “No. Go ahead.” And he gets up and kindly helps me with my suitcase.

 

I tell him, “Just a second, I have to get my MacBookPro out. I am going to do a little writing.”

 

He waits. He tells me, “You know they have Wi-Fi on this train.”

 

“Wow!” I say. And I get the MacBook. I do not get the power cord.

 

When we sit down he tells me he just bought a MacBookPro for his daughter.

“Awesome.” I say.

 

We discuss the wonders of the Mac.

I know some of you don not agree.

 

I start writing my blog. I am writing and as I am writing I am watching the battery icon slowly shrink to half. Then to quarter. I think: I don’t think battery icon used to shrink this fast.

 

But it is shrinking. And I am almost done. There is a certain sense of completion when one finishes a project. A kind of completion one does not want ripped away by a sudden loss of battery power.

 

I look over at Sleeping Guy, who is sleeping again.

 

CRAP. I am not going to make it. I try to schooch around to get my suitcase out of the overhead without waking him up. I almost have it when my Bluetooth headset falls out of my ear and lands right in his crotch.

 

!!!!!!!!!!

 

For a moment I am in suspended animation. I think: Please God, let him wake up.

 

Thankfully he does. “So sorry.” I say.

 

He fishes the Bluetooth headset out of his crotch and hands it to me.

 

“Thanks.” I say.

 

I sit back down with my suitcase and power cord.

 

I look over at Sleeping Guy, now awake but not looking at me.

 

I think: I might just have a story here.

 

Just might.

There is no time like the FIRST TIME.

Today son voted for the first time.

 

It is the night before the election. Son says, “Mom. When are you voting?”

“Mmmm. Not sure. Probably right after work.” I say.

Son says, “I don’t get out of class until 3:45. Can you wait for me?”

 

Can I wait for him? Can I wait for him?

 

“YES!” I say. “I can wait for you.”

 

Today comes and I go to work for no teaching but for Election Day Professional Development. All day I am thinking about voting with son.

 

I tell Teaching Partner, “I just want to go vote.”

 

She nods.

TP knows it is son’s first time.

 

3:10 comes and I head home to wait for son.

At 3:45 son texts: Leaving now.

I text: Text me when you come up out of R train.

 

I wait.

I wait.

 

FINALLY son texts: I am out.

I text: Meet me on the corner of 1^st and 5^th. And I dash around the apartment pulling myself all together to go stand in the long MS 51 voting line, which wraps around the building and onto the avenue.

 

“Ugh.” I say. “Look at the line.”

“Mom.” son says. “Patience.”

 

People in the line are talking about the line.

“Is it ONE line?”

“Can district 76 go in?”

“How long have you been waiting?”

 

I see people walking up the side.

I say to son, “Are those people cutting the line??”

Son shrugs.

“I think they are! They are cutting the line!” I say.

“Mom.” he says.

 

“CUTTERS!” I say.

Son is embarrassed I can tell. But I don’t care. I say it again.

The woman RIGHT IN FRONT OF US steps off the line and sidles up the side.

 

I cannot believe it. No, I cannot.

 

Son says, “Not everyone has morals mom.”

 

But the line is moving. We get closer to the shining blue door of much warmer voting bliss.

 

“How long do you think it will be?” I ask Man With Hat coming out.

 

“2 hours.” Man With Hat says.

 

I look at son. I whine.

 

“2 hours! 2 hours!”

 

“I should have eaten dinner.” I say. “And my feet are freezing.”

 

The line moves again. A LOT. I give a little election cheer. “Woo!” I say.

 

Police Officer comes out. Police Officer calls District 86 and 92.

 

“What about 87?” I say.

 

“Not yet.” he says

 

I sink back into my frozen foot funk.

 

Finally, we are inside the building. Police Officer calls District 87.

 

“We are 87! We are 87!” I say. And I shove some guy who is trying to cut me out of the way.

 

Ok, maybe not shove. Maybe just encourage the giving of way.

 

Yeah.

 

Now we are in the gym, in the 87 line. We are approaching the table. I tell son, “Now you have to do this folder and scan thing.”

 

Son nods.

 

I say, “It’s not as good as the lever. The lever was very satisfying. You really felt like you accomplished something.”

 

Son says, ‘I will never know.”

 

I actually feel a little sad about that. But ok, true.

 

When we get up to the table, I go first. I get my folder and I go over to the little booth and make my marks. I double check them and make them all a little darker.

 

When I am done I pass son and say, “I am scanning.”

 

“Ok.” he says.

 

I wait for him by the scanner. I see him coming down the side smiling and I feel so proud. I have the same proud feeling I had as son was walking down the aisle at his graduation.

 

I take a picture. “Mom.” he says. “You are such a mom.”

 

“Yes.” I say.

 

Son scans.

 

“Ready?” I say.

 

“Yes.” he says.

 

As we are walking out a young man runs up behind us. He taps son on the shoulder. “Sir.” he says. “I think you might have forgotten this card at the table.”

 

“Oh. Thanks.” Sir says. And he goes over to retrieve his voting card.

 

I look at him. The son. Sir.

And I smile.

 

“Let’s go eat.” I say.

 

Let’s go eat, sir.

24 AFTER

Yesterday I went for a run with Program Friend.

I call her up on Hurricane Day. I say, “We are running tomorrow morning.”

“We are?” she says.

“Yes.” I say. “We always run after the hurricane. Remember last year?”

“Oh yeah.” she says.

It is still blowing and whooshing outside. I keep thinking about the barrier islands and the images on TV of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel gushing full with water. I am wondering how bad it is going to be, but it is late and I go to sleep anyway.

Before I get in bed I take one last look at the tree outside my window to see how it is doing. It seems fine so I get in bed.

I wake up and I look out the window. The tree is still there but there is even more stuff all over the street.

I text PF: Ready?

She texts: I just woke up.

That PF. She is a sleeper.

I text: Ok. Half hour.

On the way up to the park I see big branches and two whole huge trees right in the middle of the street. Clumps of garbage have gathered near the drains.

I get up to the park and it is roped off. When PF gets there we go in anyway.

We start our run. We come upon old tree after old tree. Ripped in half, tossed, completely uprooted. I keep stopping to document all the trees that have lost their lives. PF says, “We cannot stop for every tree.”

She is right. I put the Blackberry away and we keep running.

A lot of people are in the park. Walking dogs and looking to see what has happened to our beloved Prospect Park.

“It’s going to be a lot of work.” I say.

PF nods.

While we are running we are talking about school and wondering when we will go back. The subways have taken an unprecedented hit. All the east river tunnels are flooded. I don’t know how long it will take to pump out all that water and then even after that how much salt water damage there will be.

We keep running and come to the cut through place. It is almost completely blocked. We climb over the branches and go through.

I think: The park has really been hurt. So many people have really been hurt.

When we are done running we decide to trot down 9^th street to see if Dizzy’s is open.

“I want an egg sandwich.” I say.

“Me too!” PF says.

We get down to the corner of 8^th avenue and 9^th street. Dizzy’s is packed. We order. While we are standing there I hear people talking about the fires in Breezy Point. 80-100 homes completely gone. Flames fanned by hurricane winds. Firefighters unable to get enough water pressure, trapsing through the floodwaters.

I think about Coney Island. I think about Rockaway Beach. I think about how we really are on an island.

Our sandwiches are ready and we get on our way. PF heads home and I head to a meeting. I am not surprised the meeting is packed.

People share. I share. I share about eating. Really, I have run out of things to do except eat. We have cleaned the whole house. We have made guacamole, we have made brownies. I designed 4 website prototypes, wrote a blog and talked with every single person I needed to catch up with.

So now I guess I will just keep eating.

Used to be I would hunker down during these times when a natural disaster relieved me of any responsibility and get good and hammered.

But ok, I don’t do that anymore.

So now the refrigerator is my dealer. I walk back and forth and open the fridge looking for what I can eat next.

Being in the meeting I recall September 11. How the whole city stopped. How I was here in this room, packed with people in shock. Just then someone shares how she has lost everything and is looking for a place to live.

I suddenly feel very, very lucky.

I go home and son is sitting on the purple couch. We turn on the news. We sit riveted to the pictures of the aftermath. We are not made for this kind of hit.

I say. “The infrastructure of NYC is not made to take on this kind of hit. Not like Florida is built for hurricanes. Not like California is made for earthquakes.”

Son hangs his head a little.

Son says, “You know mom, this is it. The water temperature has gone up a few degrees. We have had two hurricanes in two years. This would not be happening if it were not for global warming.”

I look at him. 18 with lots of time ahead of him.

I say, “Yes. This is it. This is your time son.”

“I know.” he says.

I KNOW.