Comme ci, comme ça

I’ve had a roller-coaster of a week, and even though tomorrow is Friday, I don’t feel like the crazy is going to end anytime soon.

once and again

I’m on the train from New York to D.C., which is one of my favorite legs of this annual NY/DC trip. This is the third year running that I’ve come back east this time of year, first to New York to see family, and then on to D.C. for a conference. I love traveling by train, and I’m lucky enough to have had an hour in the car with Sean on the way here, and then a sunny window seat for the three- hour train ride.

I just went to the snack car for a bottle of water, and on my way back to my seat, I had to squeeze by several people who were standing around the snack car and the loo (which share an unfortunate proximity). I squeezed by one guy in particular, who as I passed bumped closer to me and said, “Hey, baby” in a very low, very slimy, somewhat threatening voice. And I was transported back to a time when I was 13 years old and riding the bus from New York into New Jersey.

I was with a former family friend, who could be called many things except a “guardian” of any kind, but we didn’t know that at the time. I don’t know why I was traveling with her, but it was late, and we were late catching the bus, and we took the last two seats, which were not together. I sat in a front seat next to a man by himself, and all I remember about him now is he was wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt, and his hair was longish. I spent the ride staring out of the front window into the NY/NJ night. About halfway through, I thought I felt a slight tugging on my sleeve. I froze. I saw through the corner of my eye that the man next to me was sitting with his arms crossed, and that his hand was probably very near my arm where I felt a tug on my sleeve. But no, I must have imagined it. A couple minutes later, I felt it again… and then again.

I was terrified. I was anything but naïve, even at that tender age, but I wasn’t entirely sure what this tugging meant. I didn’t move for the rest of the ride, both dreading and waiting for the next little tug. He finally gave up, and when it was time for him to get off the train, before I could get up to let him pass, he squeezed his way out, pressing the front of his legs into mine and basically shoving his crotch into my face.

I spent the rest of the ride bewildered. What exactly was he hoping for? If he was a normal guy, wouldn’t he just have said “hello” if he wanted to engage me? Did he realize I was only 13? Was he a rapist or a horny bastard or just a lonely guy? In essence, what the fuck? I, at that point, was used to the attentions of older men. I generated an unfortunate amount of that attention, even though I was emotionally (if not physically) very much still a child. So while I was accustomed to that attention, I don’t think I had any idea just how dangerous it could be.

The woman I was with, upon hearing about my little encounter, thought it was hilarious that I’d been “hit on”. I didn’t find it so hilarious, and if that exact thing happened to me now, I think I’d be equally bewildered; but I’d also either switch seats, confront the guy, or take some other kind of action, particularly if he didn’t get off the bus before I did.

Fast forward twenty-two years, and this nasty man on the train to D.C. makes me feel that same sort of yuck. Public cat-calling or just saying hello or even sweet but misguided overtures are one thing; whispered, dark come-ons meant for my ears only- or my sleeve only- are something else altogether. You can argue that it was a harmless come-on, but I would ask, what is the end game? This guy was not going out of his way to tell me he found me attractive or appealing in any sort of appreciative way. The only way I can describe the feeling is that he wanted to possess a part of me. Rape, abuse, all of it is about control and rage and little else, and even though all this guy did is rub up against me an utter two little words, it makes me want to kick him in the nads. It makes me want to take retribution. It makes me want to put him in a situation where he feels threatened and scared, even for a minute, even in the sunshine with a train full of passengers.

Of all the battles I regularly fight alone, this is one that actually makes me feel lonely.

I think it was particularly difficult because of just having left one of the safest places I know. When I’m at Sean and Jordi’s, I’m realizing, I don’t feel “defined”, in a way. I don’t feel like a single person, I don’t feel attractive or unattractive, I don’t feel even happy or sad or angry or righteous or anything particularly specific. I just, sorta, “am”. I don’t worry about anything other than figuring out who happens to be awake or who might be watching Barnaby or who might need a snack- including me. It’s a wonderfully peaceful and safe feeling, and sometimes when I’m in Queens for a stretch and I leave the house, I’m jarred by having to interact with the world.

But- here I am, going from a houseful of babies to a town full of elected officials, many of whom will have to put up with me in the next couple of days. Both worlds are important to me, and along the way, there are going to be dicks that I’ll have to deal with. But it’s no surprise to me, really, that since I was quite young, I’ve been attracted only to taller, stronger men, I think with the primal, unconscious hope that when I do have to deal with these dicks, someone will have my back. Funny how that hasn’t ever actually worked in my favor. It’s not hard to imagine, though, that someday, I just might snap, and actually, finally, kick some nasty dude in the nads.

what a wonderful town

I was smart enough to bring my camera, but not quite smart enough to remember the cord that connects my camera to my computer, so it looks like you’ll all just have to wait to see the latest pictures of the cutest 15-month-old boy in the history of the universe.  Two delightful things have happened to me so far on this trip: one, Barnaby smiled at me within about two minutes of seeing me for the first time, and better yet, raised his arms to me to be lifted up after about only five minutes.  My sweet nephew remembered me, and asked for me.  That was the biggie. Second, and not quite as earth-shattering, Hildy, my mom’s dog, also remembered me, or at least, saw me as kindred spirit and went from growling at me when I first came up the stairs to rolling on her back in delight whenever I enter the room.  Babies and puppies, I tells ya.  They should figure out how to bottle that kind of joy.

holding hands with a god

Sometimes my brand of crazy feels like Lois Lane in the first Superman movie, when Lois does her whole “can you read my mind?” monologue as she and Superman are flying around Manhattan.  Sometimes my brand of crazy gets trapped up in being the fittest woman in the world who has never been able to get rid of the extra chub, not in decades.  Often my brand of crazy manifests in the deep of the night, when I start awake to a quiet house and can’t quite figure out how this whole house is mine, and why it is so empty.  Sometimes my brand of crazy takes hold in the middle of a dinner party (like it did tonight) when I say something so achingly honest and real that everyone else shifts in their seats, and tries to figure out if they want to engage on that level before the ice cream is served.  Sometimes my brand of crazy tears at me when I think I have a dream job that might also injure me.

the best possible accolades

Last month, I was a “Community Leader Reader” at a local elementary school.  During their read-a-thon, this school invites local folks in to read to kids in a few classrooms.  So for about two hours, I wandered from class to class, reading “The Frog Prince: Part II” to 2nd through 5th graders.  It was such a lovely experience, and the kids were SO. DAMN. CUTE.  Today, I got the most wonderful package in the mail.

try, try again

Things I’m realizing I look for on a first dinner date (beyond brilliance, humor, curiosity, liberalism, and passion):

evidence

For the last six or so weeks, I’ve been involved in a pilot program for a new Master’s degree program in Organizational Development. Tomorrow night is the last session, which means my seminar paper is due at midnight tonight. I’ve just posted my paper- 3 1/2 hours under the wire- and I have four more chapters of reading to do before tomorrow, but all I really want to do is watch “Bones” and eat more delicious wheat bread.

I’m hopeful that the closing of this seminar, and the end point for some of my crazy work stuff, means the beginning of more time, more sleep, more bike rides, and less anxiety. More baking. Less working. But, wonderfully, every now and then, I get a very tangible reminder that my work means something. It’s been sort of a stellar couple of weeks for that kind of thing, and then, today, I got word that I was selected out of a pool of national candidates to receive an all-expenses paid trip to a national arts conference, through an “emerging leaders” program. The conference is in June, and I can’t think of a better early birthday present for that month. (Well… a pony, maybe, but where would I keep him?)

As I’ve made abundantly clear, I love conferences, even when they are boring. I love being surrounded by people who do what I do and care about what I care about. I love visiting cities where I’ve never been and spending an extra day to do a little discovery. And I LOVE that this time, my organization won’t have to pay for air fare, hotel, food, conference, NUTHIN! Beyond all of that, the learning tracks at this conference are so compelling that I don’t know what to choose: public policy? Civic engagement? Community focus? Marketing? These may sound dry; they are anything but. These tracks provide specific, compelling tools to help me do my job better. And I get to be in a learning space with, again, those folks who dig what I dig.

Right now, though, at this moment, all I’m thinking about is Saturday morning yoga, coffee, NPR, gardening, nap, massage, bath, evening bike ride, wine with friends, early to bed. In that order. But come June, I’m going to be awful excited about getting on a plane to Philadelphia.

new growth

Try to not be jealous. It’ll be hard, but try.

I just spent a few lovely days with much of my family down in Venice, CA. The Lucy and Barnaby show was extraordinary, as was just simple time spent with so many brothers and sisters-in-law. One of the highlights of the trip was going for a bike ride with Steve, Ian, and the two little ones in a “chariot” behind Ian’s bike. Lucy and Barno spent the entire time either singing, or staring raptly out the chariot windows at the sunset and the Ferris wheel down the beach.

Not only did I get the pleasure of everyone’s company on that ride, but it was also the inaugural ride of my new pink cruiser. It’s common knowledge that for every last little thing on earth, there is a dork somewhere who obsesses about that thing. For me, it’s bikes. And I think I differ from most bike geeks because I don’t just collect fancy handmade Italian racing bikes. I mean, I have a fancy handmade Italian racing bike which is about the sexiest thing since, well, my new KitchenAid mixer, but I also have an awesome Trek hybrid. And, now, a pink cruiser. I don’t want many of the same bike, I want every kind of bike there is. And now, I feel sated.

I’ve also heard that “things” don’t equal happiness, but… but the joy I feel on the back of a bike- any bike- is unlike anything else in my life. Every time I put my feet down to climb off a bike after a long ride, I remember that I feel a little awkward when I’m on land. Or rather, that I feel like, with two wheels, I can fly.

Ian took me to the bike shop. I rode on the back of his bike, hands clenched on the back of his belt, feet flying free down the Venice boardwalk. Maybe that’s what it was like for Lucy and Barnaby on their ride.

It was tough to come home after such a short trip, but I came home to happy news. The tree in my front yard, and all of my wee seedlings, sprouted in the 70-plus degree weather.

These little guys are about eight different types of heirloom tomatoes, as well as what is eventually going to be buckets of basil. I haven’t grown tomatoes from seed since I was in the sixth grade (and then it was a science experiment). It could be said that I have plenty of hobbies (baking, cooking, cycling, puzzles, games, travel, cycling, hiking, yoga, gardening, etc.- ye gods, what a zork I am) but I couldn’t resist just one more this spring. Rather than going to a nursery and buying whatever heirlooms look best, I wanted to be there for the very beginning of the process. What’s incredible is not just these little green guys stretching toward the sky, but also the tiny little still-bent seedlings, doubled over in the earth, who just aren’t ready quite yet to make their first extension toward the sun.

Ahh, bliss. I really don’t want this weekend to end.

1000 words at least

My colleague sent me this picture today.  Proof positive of the Senatorial hugging- and of the Napa Valley art.

arts action