I’ve had a hard couple of days, and true to form, I haven’t written about it. I hate that about my writing- I am loathe to commit my current hardships to paper. I do it occasionally, and I think it can be really useful, and I kick myself when I wait to write until Problem A dissapears.

Today, however, was good fun. We did the reshoots for the Pink House, spending the day in Prospect Park. The gods blessed us with a beautiful day- so different than the sweltering-heat-turned-monsoon that hit us in North Carolina two summers ago. Today was in the 60s, breezy and sunny and gorgeous. Even better, I saw parts of the park that I miss when I take my bike on the loop.

Yesterday, however… yesterday I tried desperately to get my shift covered, since I just needed some time to myself, and no one would work for me, and I did my opening sidework in near tears. I had gone to a particularly (for me, at least) emotional yoga class early in the day, and it let loose a flood of feelings and sadness that I wasn’t prepared to deal with. I had to go straight to work after the class because we were holding a staff wine tasting, and I couldn’t begin to enjoy it. I begged the entire staff to work that night, and when no one would I had to truly stop and take control of myself. A mantra started in my head, one that either one or both of my parents gave me when I was young and didn’t want to practice the cello: “Life is about doing things that you don’t want to do.” I sure thought that was horseshit at the time, but really, it wasn’t, because I never got away with not practicing. (Although I have to admit to my father that I would wait until the hour of his morning shower and say I’d practice then, and then when I heard the water turn on in the master bedroom, I’d lay down my bow and stare off into space until the water shut off exactly ten minutes later. This was my first calculated rebellion, and at the time, it felt immensely powerful.)

Things are never as bad as you make them out to be, and last night was proof positive. As soon as service began, I was quiet and sad but fine, and by the end of the night, I felt myself, which might not have happened had I gone home and moped. The things making me sad are multifold but not beyond my control: my financial situation, my art situation, my love situation. All three seemed to be in major flux at the same time, and it was a little much to bear. Things do not seem so grim now.

When I was all of thirteen years old, my mom picked me up from somewhere- maybe school, more likely a friend’s house since it was night, and she had a perm. Lots of spiraling hair, since all of us women in the family have lots of hair. I was a little shocked, but it looked great on her. I asked her how much it cost, and when she told me, I absolutely freaked. I remember raising my voice, detailing all of the things that I needed, and she went and blew money on a perm. And she got mad right back. I will never forget her words: “I never do anything for myself! This was for me! For once for me!” And I was shamed. I didn’t admit it in the moment, but she was so incredibly right. She went with so little, in order for us to just have tie-dyed shirts on our backs and frozen meals in the fridge. I remember feeling so selfish. And that was at a point where there was no such thing as admitting a parent was right, so rather than recant, I sulked.

My mom still buys nothing for herself. In the last ten years, I am willing to bet that she has spent less money on clothes than I did on my bike. She feels like she’s really busting the bank when she buys herself ANYTHING- even things she can easily afford, and I think this is because, for so long, she had to sell her valuables piece by piece just to pay the rent. I think this still stays with her, and will color her life forever. Make no mistake. We were poor. We were as poor and down and out and skid row as much of poor America.

Here’s the kicker. My next memory linked to this event? Me sitting in a chair in a salon, getting a perm. Not a week after my mom did. She was so right, so deserving to do this small thing for herself, and yet I obviously was a pain in the ass enough to get the same thing for myself. That is where my shame kicks right back in. Although I don’t recall how it all happened, I know my mom offered to give me what she had given herself, and I accepted. I mean, you know, they say that the only revenge for being a teenager is having one yourself. I don’t know if I’ll ever have teenagers, but I think I already know.

I feel as though I’ve sinned, if you’ll pardon the imperfect phrase, against every member of my family, and everyone else I’ve ever loved. Perhaps that is what comes with being human, but it’s difficult to reckon with, to justify. I suffer a little for some of my actions towards my Dad, my Mom, my brothers, my lovers, and my friends. I’m a little tired of the idea that we lash out and hurt the ones we love most… particularly when we are young and living through a divorce. I try, by ye gods, I try, to do better now, but I sometimes fail. I guess I’m just acknowledging that. I fail. Sometimes I fail.

By the by, my perm looked terrible.

I’m trying very hard to have some degree of contentment in my life. I’m trying to find satisfaction and actualization in the small things I accomplish. It’s difficult. But I’m trying. Today, for instance- it’s not quite 11 AM, and yet I’ve already had a full day. I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30, rode into the city for a 7:30 yoga class, did some errands around town, and rode home. I’m trying to feel satisfied but mostly I just feel like a big noodle.

Zooey now lives in the cage, or as Ian likes to call it, the old folks’ home. He’s out when I’m out, and at night when all he does is lie like a lump next to my head, but when I even go for groceries he’s right back in. He doesn’t seem to mind too much, although the minute I walk back in the door he’s howling to get out. And then he wants to put his butt all over my pillows. Yuck. When he was sick he completely destroyed my best sheet set- the set was like a billion thread count and super soft and white and, well, no amount of washing could cure it. Ah well- yet another lesson in impermanence.

I’m having a meeting at one of our sister restaurants today to try to set up a time to do a show. The restaurant has a jazz club which is dark on many Monday nights, and I’ve been trying to get a date there on a dark night for months. Turns out they have been incredibly busy, too much so to listen to the demo I sent them, so I’m trying a new angle. I want to put on a show, with my brother, as a benefit for the AIDSRide I’m doing in September. If I do it through the restaurant, it will go in the newsletter, which reaches some 50,000 people, and they will open the bar and the kitchen for the show. It’s a crazy busy summer, with Ian and Tessa’s wedding, and hopefully the Fringe Festival for Sean, but I really hope we can get a spot. Having a date would be really helpful in making ourselves work towards getting this show put together.

My whole block is blooming- the trees, the tulips, the dogs, the people. We deserve a terrific spring.

Today I’m going to tell you about my first heartbreak. It is the fall of 1986, and I am in Junior High in Morristown, NJ. We had moved there less than a year before, and I quickly made many friends since I was foreign to this little school. I was dating, as seriously as one can in the 8th grade, a guy named Joe. Joe was, to date, the best man I’ve ever loved. He was kind, funny, thoughtful, smart, and respectful. I remember the first time he told me he loved me- it was such an intense moment that neither of us could breathe. But- and there is always a but- there was this other guy, Eddie. Eddie did not possess the same qualities as Joe. But Eddie was an artist, a cartoonist and painter, and he played the drums. He was the first of my long line of big, hulky loves, tall, imposing, and manly. Eddie was in homeroom with me and my best friend Cheri, who was also best friends with Eddie. Cheri also knew Joe well, and knew our relationship well, and also knew that I was secretly in love with Eddie. But I believed that not only could I never leave Joe, but that Eddie had no feelings for me.

Eddie sat behind me in homeroom, and was also a big fan of the Police. The band, not the force. We discussed Steward Copeland’s drumming and Sting’s bass playing at length, and occasionally he would cartoon little pictures of the band for me. We laughed, we joked, we helped each other with homework, but we never actually flirted.

And then Christmastime came. Joe and I exchanged gifts early (a gold rope chain for him, a fluorescent sweater for me- do you remember that unfortunate fashion?). Before school let out for the holidays, Eddie gave me a card he had cartooned himself. The front, if memory serves, was a terrific rendering of Sting, but the words inside have stayed with me forever:

Everyone I know is lonely

And God’s so far away

And my heart belongs to no one

So now sometimes I pray

Take the space between us

Fill it up some way

Take the space between us

Fill it up

Fill it up

These words were penned by Sting, from the song “Oh My God” (which has one of my favorite bass licks). I read it, and the meaning was completely lost on me. I figured he was just quoting to, I don’t know, remind me that we had a common favorite band or something. So I took the card to Cheri, simply because I was thrilled that my secret crush had given me anything at all. She read it, and looked up at me with surprise, excitement, fear, and relief. I swear to you that all four emotions filled her face. “What?” I said. And she just looked at me until I figured it all out on my own. Eddie was in love with me. I was in love with Eddie. Eddie refused to disrespect me or Joe. Cheri had known the whole time, listening to both of us lament the other, and had kept silent in order to respect both of us. Amazing. The card was a reaching out, a hunting of possibility. I was beside myself.

I hardly remember what happened next. Within a week, I had broken up with Joe, and had taken up with Eddie, and it was bliss. I was brilliantly happy. I remember our first kiss. I had gone to one of his wrestling matches, and afterwards, had met him in the hallway. We were alone, under the ugly, bright, greenish-hued tube lights, and he reached down and planted a very soft kiss on my lips. We were both trembling. I remember thinking that this is how I wanted to feel about a kiss, this is what should happen every time I was kissed for the rest of my life.

And then… well. Eddie and I wrote notes to each other, about five or six a day, and we jokingly wrote, “To my mad love kinky sex slave” or something to that effect in greeting. Joking because we’d only shared that one kiss. Well. His father found one, and didn’t get the joke. Eddie was told never to see me again. I was crushed, and then destroyed when the next day I found out that the story about his dad was true, but that he was glad it had happened because he didn’t know how to end it with me. He wrote a note to Cheri, which was foolish, because he should have known that it would end up in my hands:

Dear Cheri,

What’s up? So here’s the thing with Michelle. My dad found a note (blah blah, whole story here). But there was something else. She, I don’t know, changed somehow when we finally got together. She just wasn’t the same. I know it’s beat and all (if I may jump in here, “beat” meant cruel or unkind) but I just didn’t like her as much anymore. I feel bad but I can’t lie, y’ know?

Anyways what are you doing tonight? Write me back.

Eddie

I got this note maybe an hour after he wrote it. And I tell you, it stings to this day. I guess he liked the brooding, angry, dark Michelle of those times than the happy, fulfilled Michelle that emerged in his company. Really, I don’t know.

Joe, who was devastated, had started seeing a girl named Lynne, and they stayed together long after I left New Jersey. Who knows, they could have married. She was a really wonderful girl and I didn’t begrudge either of them- they were really happy together. I don’t know where Eddie is now. I didn’t recover from the heartbreak and loss of those weeks for a long time. That was the last time anyone broke my heart until Valentine’s Day 2000, when my boyfriend of almost six years ended our relationship with a two minute phone call, never to contact me again.

So that is my story of heartbreaks. Really, I knew before both relationships, the first that began when I was thirteen, the second when I was twenty-two, that both of them were bad ideas. This is the mistake I intend to not make again.

I’m lying across a bed in Hillsdale, NY, with a Tofutti Strawberry Cookie bar melting beside me. I’m letting it melt because I just ate one that was mostly frozen and I’m pretty sure this one will taste better. It’s been a magical few days. 20 degrees warmer than forecasted- 70’s rather than 50’s- and long lovely days filled with bike rides and Rook games and wine and friends. The rest of the world stands still for me when I’m here. Even heated political discussions don’t leave me feeling as hopeless as when I’m in the city, in the thick of it. I called this afternoon and asked a friend to work for me tomorrow night- I’ll make up the shift later in the week- just to have one more full day here. Sean and Jordi had to leave this afternoon, but my mom is still here, and she and Ian and Tessa are working on the film score down in the living room. I’m debating between reading one of three books, taking a bath, or just going to bed early.

I can’t really complain, not about much right now.

On the way up, Ian, Tessa, my mom and I mapped out our plan if something were to happen in our beloved city. We’ve been talking about it for months, and as Tessa says, nothing may ever happen, but if it did and we had all this time and never planned anything, I’d be really annoyed. We needed to find a spot outside of the city, one that is accessible by car, bike and foot, and that would be easily remembered. We settled on the first spot we found- a “comfort station”, or set of bathrooms, that borders a park on 242 St. and Broadway. No matter where you are on the island, start heading north and eventually you will run in to it. If something were to happen in the city, and cell phones are down like they were on 9/11, we will all head for this spot, and then find our way up here to Hillsdale. It’s not a perfect plan, but it’s a plan. I hope to never have to use it.

I’d like to thank the powers that be for two things: the Harlem Valley Rail Trail and Tofutti soy ice cream products.

Hey, Dad, I don’t have your number in the desert so Happy Easter! And a happy Easter to the rest of you. May you all hunt many eggs and eat lots of chocolate.

Night before last I slept ten hours without waking. I don’t know why, but working night shifts again at the restaurant- it’s been almost two weeks that I’ve only worked days- is much harder than I remember. I’m actively yawning with hours to go, and I fall asleep on the subway on the way home, and then I am down for the count for almost half a day. I hope I am able to adjust… can’t pay rent on lunch shifts.

The weather is back to awful. Wednesday it hit 86 degrees, and by 9 AM Thursday morning it was in the 30’s. I can barely grasp how that can happen. I’m hoping that today, hovering just above freezing, is the last of it’s kind.

I hate to restate the painfully obvious, but how could our troops allow the looting of the hospitals and museums in Iraq? They said they had orders to do so… from whom? The Grand Idiot in office? Or a bunch of grander idiots under him? I simply cannot understand. They “liberate” the people and then stand by while looters destroy the city. Someone explain this to me. Someone explain why if our whole tactic was to try to spare civilian life, why are there so many orphans lacking limbs all over the country? And why the hell is our government going to “watch over” the country? I feel almost worse now than I did in the middle of the fighting. We will never catch Saddam Hussein- I called it before this war began. The government-controlled media will let his name fade, like they did with Osama Bin Laden (yet another scapegoat figurehead- both terrible men, yes, but let’s call a club a club) and then years later they will pop up and nail us harder than they did on 9/11. Wanted Dead or Alive? Give me a fucking break. I just can’t deal anymore. I still want to spend the summer or fall in Iraq, but only with a humanitarian organization that had NOTHING to do with our government. How many days is that stupid clown left in office? I think counting them might make me feel better.

Ugh. I just don’t even know how to deal.

On the home front, I’m heading up with Ian, Tessa, and my mom to the farmhouse… soon to be joined by Sean and Jordana. If my mom is 71, and I’m 30, and we are the two perpetually single people in these crowds, should I be worried? I guess I don’t really have a choice until I actually meet someone. But my mom has had 5 kids and written tons of brilliant music and has had an incredible life so far. Sometimes I honestly doubt, in the bottom of my heart, that I will ever marry or have children. Who knows- maybe I’m meant for something else altogether.

And I have to say, I don’t miss a day of being with my ex. Or really, any of them. My relationships have been plagued with doubt and tension and ugliness, and frankly, abuse, and I don’t miss the feeling of going to work having just had a fight with my alcoholic boyfriend because he doesn’t remember all of the terrible things he said to me the night before. I don’t miss not inviting my girfriends over because my other boyfriend was so insecure he would spend all night flirting and hanging out with them and ignoring me. I don’t miss finding out that yet another boyfriend spent the night at a strip club- not a problem with me- but thinking I was the kind of person he had to LIE to about it. I don’t miss always being alone even though I was supposed to be in a serious relationship. I’ve never had a partner, someone who was as independent and smart as me, someone who could teach me things and who would be willing to learn from me. And until I do, I will continue to do things like have an affair at work, eat lunch alone, and be fully responsible for my own peace of mind. I would love to meet the man who rises above the rest, but until I do, well.

I guess I’ll go get some lunch.

This morning I woke up and my DSL was not working. When I tried to open my web browser, it went directly to a troubleshooting page which walked me through fixing it. “Fixing it” meant turning it off for ten seconds and then turning it on again. And it reset itself, and now it is working fine. I was thinking that I wish I had a reset button, one that would turn me off for a few seconds and then recharge me, good as new. Or my cat Zooey. What if he had a reset button? Or any of the men I’ve ever dated? Usually my reset button is a trip to California. Or, on the shorter term, a massage. Or a day off with a yoga class and a bike ride. And a really good dinner with a great bottle of wine. Alas, none of these are free.

Yesterday was a pretty amazing reset day. It hit 78 degrees here in sunny New York, and I took full advantage. I spent the morning cleaning my apartment, and by 1 PM was on my Casati, heading for the city. I rode across Brooklyn on Flatbush, crossed the Manhattan Bridge, took 9th Street across the city, and looped up the West Side Highway. There are stretches on the bike path on the west side that are as beautiful as one could ask- the piers that stretch out into the river, the marina with all the boats ready for spring, the rolling hills as you near the GW Bridge. Just gorgeous. And it was almost hot! Crossing the GW was a challenge only because of the wind- I had to hold on tight to my handlebars just to keep the bike straight. When I got to New Jersey, I took my first wrong turn, heading away from 9W rather than towards it. But I discovered a little downtown with a sandwich shop and esspresso bar and my bank- -good to know if I get that far and haven’t brought enough food with me.

I turned around, sensing my error, and crossed back under the bridge. Less than a mile later, I found the park I’d been looking for. This park is about fifteen miles from where Christopher Street meets the West Side Highway, and on the AIDSRide, pit stops are about fifteen miles apart. This is the way we train- regardless of how long a ride we are attempting, we always stope every fifteen miles. However, since I had started in Brooklyn, this was twenty miles, and that having not done a long ride yet this year. When I pulled into the park, my legs were wobbling and I was panting. I threw down my bike, stripped off my shoes and socks and laid down in the warm grass…. ahhhh.

The miles back into the city were much harder than the miles out, even though I got to coast down all the hills that I had just climbed. I rode to Ryan’s Pub in the East Village, since that is where B and Olivia and Simone and I ended all of our training rides last year, and met my mom for a beer and a salad. We sat outside, marvelling over the weather. And lamenting the fact that Thursday it’s going to be 40 degrees and raining. Ugh.

Today I have to beg a shift at work off of somebody who needs the money just as badly as me… my plan is to show up, and give everyone the option of the night off. I am hoping for success.

This has felt like one of the longer days of my life. Not a terribly interesting one, but there were certainly more than 24 hours. I was up by 8, on my bike by 9, dressed and ready for work by 10. After a rather boring and not very lucrative eight hours, I was out into the late afternoon sun at 6. I took a short ride up the West Side Highway, one of my favorite bike paths on earth, and then rode to Laughing Lotus for a 7:30 yoga class. At 9:30, I carried my bike down the subway stairs (I don’t ride the bridges at night) without stopping for a bite to eat, since I just wanted to get home.

So here’s the funny part. I ride the three stops to my transfer, but as luck would have it, my transfer train was not running. So I carried my bike up and down another two flights of stairs to get on the train going back the way I came. Which I did, to Canal Street, because my Q train is also on Canal street. When I got there, I checked out the map, carried my bike up another two flights and rode in the nighttime traffic to Broadway. I carried my bike down TWO MORE flights of stairs, only to find that the particular Q entrance I chose did not have a booth, and therefore did not have the big “special entry” door, but only the person-high turnstiles surrounded by metal bars. I couldn’t bear to go up the stairs again, so I tried to squeeze both me and the bike through the turnstile- which naturally didn’t work- and then I got the bright idea to take the front wheel off. By the time I did, the time on the turnstile ran out. My metrocard is an unlimited, which means that you have to wait 18 minutes between each use. Oh. My. God. I put my bike down and lamented my situation for a minute or two when a tiny Korean woman came up to me. She had watched the whole thing. “You use my card,” she said. “Really?” I said. “Yes,” she said, “Two dollar fifty”. Which I fished out of my pockets. She ran her card, me and my bike sans front wheel barely squeezed through, and then she handed me my wheel through the turnstile. I thanked her, and then realzied that I was at the N and R platform. To reach the Q, I kid you not, I had to carry my bike down three flights and up two.

So I get to the Q platform, my legs weak from the riding and the yoga, my arm feeling like a noodle, and I wait. And wait. And wait. Twenty minutes later, it came, I rode it, carried up two last flights, sailed two blocks home, and… gasp… carried my bike up my brownstone steps. Here’s the double kicker. I get home to a bed covered in, well, Zooey pee, and other messes in the kitchen and bathroom. All I want to do is eat a bowl of cereal, take a bath, and go to bed. And instead, the first thing I do is take a trip to the laundry room. Oh. My. God.

Really, I’m not complaining, much as it sounds I am. But if I’m going to be this tired at the end of the day, I want to be saving lives or curing cancer or something a little more rewarding.

Last week, I met this guy who is a good friend of a co-worker. The co-worker has been trying to set me up with him for months and we finally met after a show one night. I was, uh, well, on my fourth gimlet so I wasn’t in any sort of state of sobriety and the next morning I knew we talked at some length but I couldn’t remember the whole conversation. So today, as I joke, I asked my co-worker if the guy thought I was a freak. “Yeah!” she cried. “He said you grilled him about his family. He’s having a really hard time with his family so it made him really uncomfortable.” Christ. I remember that I had felt like I was talking too much so I asked him about his family. And he replied in detail. If it made him uncomfortable, he should have freaking said so. I’m so tired of this. I was asking him questions, which in my mind is the way to get to know someone. He was really nice otherwise, but I wasn’t drawn to him in any way, and this closes the deal. You simply have to know how to ask for what you want, or what you don’t want. Yeesh.

Word on the street (and in some news sources) is that the pulling down of the statue in Bagdad was staged, that the Iraquis kissing our flag and stomping on Hussein’s image were ex-pats flown in for this specific purpose. Huh. Put that in your hat and chew it.

After three phone calls, my vet finally called me back to tell me that Zooey doesn’t have cancer, nor diabetes, nor a thyroid problem. His kidneys are failing. He is only elimintaing water, not any of the toxins, which is driving his thirst, which is why he is peeing on everything. All I can do is put him on prescription food that will manage his problem, but obviously, there is no cure. My brother Ian had a brilliant idea to keep him in a big cage, with pillows and a little litter box. It’s the only way I can keep him, and when he becomes miserable, well. Then I’ll know what to do. Meanwhile, just in the few hours I’ve been home, he’s ruined… oh, it doesn’t even bear going in to. He just can’t control himself.

I rode my bike to work this morning for the first time this year. It was raining, and forty degrees, but I figured it was time to start. I got lost a couple of times and still made it in less than forty minutes. And I tell you, it makes all the difference. For the first time in ages I wasn’t exhausted before the shift even began. I know there are favorable statistics about people who ride their bikes to work- more productive, better attitude- and I tell you they speak the truth. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to sleep nine hours, either.

I don’t know what to do. My old, sick cat is ruining my apartment. I just washed everything- rugs, pillows, floors- and I was cooking dinner and looked down to see a huge stain on one of the fresh rugs. He can’t make it another three feet to the litter box. I’ve had this cat since I was a teenager. How can I possibly just get rid of him because he can’t control his bladder? But how can I live like this? The thing is, I can’t. I don’t know what to do.

In other, more pleasant and less smelly news, I did a great audition today. And that is saying a lot, because my last few auditions have been just terrible. It was for a national tour of “Sound of Music”, and although I’m not perfect for any role, I thought I’d try to look sixteen going on seventeen rather than thirty going on thirty-one. Funny how I always thought I’d have kids by the time I was thirty. Ha Ha! Anyway, I get to the Equity center before 8 AM, get my slot, wait forever, and then get called to sing. As I was waiting in line, the fact came out that the only person listening to the auditions was the assistant choreographer. Yeesh. But event the assistant choreographer has influence over the show, so I really wanted to do well. And I did. So much so that my song ended and I giggled. I was walking over to the accompanist to get my music and the auditor said, “Wow, what a beautiful song!” and I said “Yep. My mom wrote it.” I smiled at their “really?!” and their baffled faces and said, “Yep!” and marched out the door. How many others will be singing a song that their mom wrote? Ha Ha!

I spent the rest of the day at a salon. What, you might ask, was a poor person like me doing at a salon? And I tell you this: Pink House movie reshoots are happening in the next couple of weeks and my character was quite blonde. Since, it’s gone that sort of adult blonde, which translates to lightish brown if one does not spend some cash on highlights. Also, doing this audition today inspired me to take a little better care of my appearance. This can be hard for me, as most clothes that I think are cool or sexy can be described as “wicking”, and if I had my druthers I’d always be wearing a sport top and pants that can get ruined by bike grease. But I’m going to dive back into the acting world. Plus I can write off every cent I put on my credit card today. Ha Ha!

Best news yet: warm weather is just around the bend. Next week? Over 70 degrees!!!! HA HA!!! Best news ever: maybe this war will be over soon.