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Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Not Cool and Old

A few weeks ago I went to a new Mommy group. It was at the Teat Lounge, oh I mean, the Tea Lounge in Park Slope. There were 14 women who showed up, all looking slightly freaked out, tired and wondering how the hell they got there. (Or that just could have been me.) I'm not a group-joiner-inner and so for me this was a huge step. I was both nervous and excited to meet these women so with Mamie strapped to my chest and my vintage coat around her I entered the place -- and waited for something to happen. There were so many people and no one really facilitating that it was all sort of a mish-mosh and I got stuck in the middle of two groups conversing, with no one really talking to me. I tried to smile a lot and act all interested... but who am I kidding, I just wasn't. Only when someone who looked just as baffled as I was did I make my way out of my seat to greet her. Megan looked cool with a cute haircut and an expression akin to mine - slightly confused and mildly embarrassed. I found out that she was a book editor for an art house that I admired and pretty soon we exchanged numbers. "I"m better one-on-one rather than in a group," I said to her.

So today we met today at a cafe/bar in Prospect Heights with our babies in tow. I like this place a lot - they play good music at a decent sound level (unlike the Tea Lounge which blasts really bad music), have tasty snacks and isn't overrun by Mommy groups. I walked in with Mamie in the bjorn and looked for Megan, but she wasn't there yet. Paul's Boutique was playing and a few people were on their laptops doing some work. I felt pretty good in my vintage coat and cargo pants and Juicy Couture poofy-top-sweatshirt complete with indie rock New Balances in those hard-to-find color combos. But I got the distinct impression from the people in the place that I was one of "them" and had lost my way or something. They didn't out and out tell me to leave but it was just a feeling i got. I was no longer a cool person, but a lady-with-a-baby.

I ordered a coke and a sandwich and waited for Megan, gently bouncing Mamie in her bjorn. Oh god, I AM one of them, doing that baby bounce thing that looks strange to everyone else except someone who knows (i.e. a Mommy) that babies need to be bounced in order not to wake up screaming their heads off. I felt naked and exposed and wondered if I pierced my lip would they think differently of me? Oh shit, pierce my lip? I take it back, I AM OLD. Old and not cool. Is that who I am? I didn't think so, but it's how a part of the world sees me now, I guess.

It happened last week too when Douglas and I went to Beacon's Closet to shop for some clothes. We had Mamie with us in a carriage and even though Doug had his Psychic TV cap on and I was rockin' a Triple 5 Soul coat, it didn't matter. We had a baby with us and we were one of them again. Breeders. And a week before that when Jenny came over and told me how she was hanging out the Kings of Leon I felt it also. "Who dat?", I asked already knowing that if you have to ask...

OLD.

Ok, so I'm old and have a baby. But you know what? I LIKE IT. I like it because the pressure is off. The pressure to wear the latest fashion, to know all the new music and places to go,and to constantly be on the cutting edge (or even know the new term for "cutting edge.") So yeah, maybe I get looks like I'm an oldie -- but I know I'm also a goodie. There are those moments that tell me so. Just last week at the haircutting place the boy washing my hair said to me: You just had a baby? ! Wow. You are so diesel." I felt young and cool and happy to be exactly who I am. Not that I know what diesel means...

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Pizza Boy

A few years ago I took French class at the Alliance Francais. I always wanted to speak French and since I had booked a trip to Paris I thought that at least learning to how say important things like "where is the bathroom" and "no, I do not have any STD's" in French would be helpful for my trip. The class was small and no one knew a word of the language. I was pleased with that as I am really, really slow at picking up languages and thought that if I was in room full of people who knew French already, I would have to run and hide. I haven't even mastered English. Anyway, I made friends with some people and then also noticed the one cute boy in class. It was easy, he was the only one. Patrick lived in my neighborhood so we'd take the subway home together and talk. He was an engraver at Tiffany's and a budding artist -- really tall and good looking in that skinny Clark Kent sort of way. We had wonderful talks on the way home but that was it. No asking of my digits, no nothin'. At the end of the semester we went our separate ways.

Then a few months later on one autumn Saturday night I was out riding my bike (I was on my way to meet Aaron for a late night bike ride) and who do I see but Patrick. He seemed genuinely happy to see me and this time I took the pen from his bag and wrote my number for him. "Caaaaaaaaall me," I said mimicking that psychic on tv. And call he did. We went out a few times - to dinner, to a movie, for drinks that lasted hours in length. But he never made a move. Hmm, I thought. Is he really that shy or is this a case of a guy being sort of attracted to me but not wanting to make a move because he liked the friendship? Uck, not that again, I thought. Friends told me to be patient, that maybe he was a gentleman and that I shouldn't rush things. Rush things? What things?

One particular night at KGB bar, the night before Thanksgiving in fact, we stayed out for around five hours, talking talking talking about things. I had a coupla drinks and so did Patrick. He sat next to me. It was dark. The wind was howling outside. Earlier in the evening we went to the Upper West Side to see the Thanksgiving Day balloons. This was all kinda romantic -- you know, except without the actual romance. At around 2AM we left the bar and were walking up 2nd Avenue. I lived on 14th Street and thought that maybe he'd finally bust a move outside my door. But at St. Marks Place Patrick decided to "head east" to get pizza. No, he did not ask me if I wanted a slice (yes, I wanted a slice -- of something) and no he did not offer to walk me home. I looked at him, baffled, and sauntered away mumbling to myself. I had decided that was IT. Ok, so you don't want to make out with me, but I am a stickler for being walked home. It's just manners.

The next day I spoke to my friend Lucas, who coined Patrick "Pizza Boy." Let him eat pizza, I thought. Funk him. But a week later I was still thinking about him when the phone rang -- and who was it but Patrick. I mean, Pizza Boy. He was calling to see if I wanted to go out for drinks with him. "I don't think so," I said. He seemed confused as to why I didn't want to see him and that's when I asked him what we were doing. "Have these been dates or what,?" I asked. "That's a very good question," he retorted. He had no idea. Which was just so great for my ego. I mean, he couldn't decide if he liked me or not? Gee, thanks. That's when I said "Well, let's just say they weren't dates then. We can just be friends." I was covering up big-time and no, I had no intention of wanting to be friends with him. Again, funk that. I hung up the phone and stared at it for a good hour.

Life went on and about a month or so later, guess who calls again? Pizza Boy! Seemed he wanted to go out again. Sigh. That's when I asked him if he remembered what I said about being friends. "Well, I lied," I said. "I liked you and you knew I liked you and you were unsure so I let you off the hook. But that doesn't mean I want to be friends. I was just saying that. That's what people who are embarrassed say." "Oh, " he said.

After that, he didn't call.

Months and months later (possibly years - I forget but it was after I met Doug and got engaged to him) I ran into Pizza Boy. Again, he seemed happy to see me, in a really genuine way. He was with a girl and I was with Doug and it wasn't weird. We all seemed happy and relaxed. I felt really grown up. We could all be friends -- yet wouldn't (the way it should be.) Anyway, I'd run into him from time to time, he'd check my website, order my zine, send me nice notes about my writing. Whatta nice guy. All's well that ends well, eh?

Then today I got a card in the mail. This card has a map on it that points to the tree in Tompkins Sq. Park that commemorates Patrick's death. Yeah, DEATH. The notice came with no note, no telephone number, no explanation. What tha? So I googled him. And unfortunately this is what I found. (third item)

R.I.P. friend.

Monday, February 07, 2005

And So Concludes Boob Fest '05

What can I say? Boob Fest '05 was even better than Boob Fest '04. Sadly (or really, not so sadly), there will not be any more festivities. Bring on those smaller bras! I can now retire the words, "engorgement" and "nipple" from my vocabulary. Let's all rejoice engorgedly, with nipples!

I've had baby on the brain for so long that now that it is time for me to think about writing another book I am having trouble getting my thoughts together. Sleep deprivation will do that, I guess. But I do want to write another book and I am leaning towards short stories. Personally I love reading short stories (especially ones by Delmore Schwartz, Shirley Jackson and John Cheever) and have toyed with writing a connected series of growing up in the 1970s in my Philadelphia 'hood. One of the stories I wrote ended up in the Alan King book, Matzo Balls for Breakfast and Other Memories of Growing Up Jewish, but I have many more. Question is: anyone wanna read 'em?

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

6 Weeks

I'm determined not to make this into one of those mommy blogs. But here it is, Mamie's 6 week birthday and I want to write all about her. She's a good baby. She sleeps as much as she can and only cries when we won't walk her around to reggae music or sing songs to her about her poop. I am really hoping she knows her name because I never call her by it. I won't tell you what I call her. Like Madonna, I want to keep my baby. And if I tell you what I call her that might not happen. So, what's our day like? Sleep, poop, pee, feed, put in vibrating chair, poop, change diaper, poop again, take pics of her crying, feel guilty about waiting for the perfect crying picture (and then take it anyway), try to sleep, warm bottles, cabbage, etc. (Boob Watch '05 is still in effect, ya'll). But get this, I'm not complaining. Seriously. This is pretty cool.