Swimming Lessons

Dear Story,

Happy seven month birthday!!! So by now we know each other pretty well, and it should be no surprise to you that I occasionally isolate from the world, seemingly drop off the end of the earth and have no time to update my blog. But just because I don’t have time to write you love letters, doesn’t mean I don’t notice every tiny little changing detail in your world and note it with significance.

For example, just the other day, as we lay on mommy and daddy’s bed, bathed in the yellow glow of morning sunlight, you outlining mommys face with your cherub chubbed fingers, you took your hand to your leg and itched a little spot on your upper thigh where you had recently had your tetanus shot. You scratched an itch! While I know this may seem insignificant, it involved the type of pain-hand coordination that little babies can't grasp. But you my dear, you are not a little baby any more. I sighed and was overcome with gratitude that I am privileged to watch you as you blossom.

Of course, there are many more exciting developments then your ability to scratch an itch, but each one is special to me and daddy and I want to make sure that you know we see them all.

July and August were very busy months for our family and while you emerged unscathed, there were a lot of challenges and adjustments. For starters, we camped our way from Ina and Poppa’s house to Aunt Katryn and Pearl’s house and then to our new home in sunny LA. You LOVED camping. Please see evidence below.

I theorize that you just loved sleeping all night next to mommy and daddy and having every day together as a family. But you may have actually loved the camping experience of roughing it without daily baths, wearing the same clothes all day and sleeping in the car. All I know is that you smiled and laughed throughout it all. Even when mommy and daddy were yelling at each other about missed exits, what is considered a reasonable amount of time between bathroom breaks, and where we should stop for lunch.

Once we arrived in LA, we set up our new house and then mommy and daddy turned all their attention to you. This is when we discovered that you had developed some bad sleeping habits and we had to do a little Ferberizing. Mommy read the book and then Daddy read the book and we were all ready to put it into action when you suddenly decided to sleep right through the night from 7pm to 7am, all by yourself. Just like a little angel.

Of course, you didn’t stay in this zone, so eventually we had to Ferber. And here is what we did. We bathed you and put you in your footed jammies, made you a big bottle and laid you gently on the floor in your new room to feed you. Daddy read you a story and then we both kissed you, collectively about 100 times so that you knew how much we loved you. Then mommy put you in the bed and said, “Goodnight sweet Story Brynne. Mommy loves you so much. You are going to have a long sleep and feel so refreshed in the morning. Dream about colors and feathers and whatever babies dream about when they are sleeping soundly. See you in the morning.” And then I left the room and you screamed so loud I thought you were going to bust open a vein on your forehead.

Oh how it hurt mommy’s heart to hear you scream, but I knew we had to let you learn how to put yourself to sleep. I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel abandoned or ignored, so after about three minutes I came back in the room and kissed your tears away and told you I loved you and that I would see you in the morning. You calmed as I left the room again and then you worked yourself back up into a frenzy and I set a little egg timer for five minutes and paced outside your door. But then something amazing happened. You stopped crying at about the four minute mark. The longest four minutes of my life!! But you stopped and you didn’t make another peep until 7 am the next morning. I praised Allah, Jesus, Joseph and Buddha and told everyone you were now sleeping through the night.

But like always, just when I think I have you figured out, you switch it all up on me. Within a few days, you were waking up again at all hours of the night and I had to do the egg timer again to set you straight. I think you started to understand that we were not far away and were just on the other side of the door. You cried less and less and then it happened that you just started closing your eyes before I even left the room.

So now it’s been about two weeks of solidly sleeping through the night. Sometimes you sleep 12 hours, but most the time you sleep 11. You go to bed every night at 7pm and wake anytime between 5:30am and 7:30am. And some times, you just eat and go right back to sleep until 8 or 9. This is called "sleeping in" and only allowed on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

Sleeping through the night is such a big milestone and we are so proud of our little honey bear. But don’t think we haven’t noticed that you are quickly approaching a second big milestone; crawling.

We have tried our best to retard your movement and slow your mobile growth. Daddy would like to bind your legs together so you never figure it out, but even with your legs bound I have a feeling you would find a way to scootch yourself across the floor. Right now, you roll over on your back, arch into 'bridge', and push yourself across whatever surface you are on by balancing on the top of your head. This particular move frightens me and I much prefer you learn to crawl on your belly like the cartoon babies on the corner of the Gerber food.

You definitely want to move. Things that motivate a creative rolling or scootching technique and requisite tears of frustration include, but are not limited to, the following:

• mommy’s phone
• daddy’s phone
• sharp objects like mommy’s scissors and Global knife set
• mommy’s new 3G iPad
• medicine bottles
• full and empty baby bottles
• full cups of hot steamy coffee
• and the sight of mommy's naked teets

I’m pretty sure that any one of the above will finally get you up on your knees. But for now, I’m content with your frustration. What you like to do instead of crawl, is pull yourself up on things like mommy’s leg, the coffee table, your crib and the chest of drawers in your bedroom. You like to stand up in your new high chair when I try to feed you. And food is another one of your exciting developments.

This last month, you have started getting bored with a single serving of solid baby food number 1 strained sweet peas. So we started with the twos and adding oatmeal and giving you puffs and yogurt drops and cheerios and letting you hold the spoon and trying out a sippee cup, and wouldn’t you know it – you LOVE to eat!! You pretty much start giggling whenever mommy gets close to the high chair. When you eat something you love like pears with oatmeal and cinnamon, you smile and throw your head back and hum, “mmmmmmmmm”. It’s only the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, besides the sound of you laughing in the bath tub.

You love bath time and you are usually so tired by the time it arrives that you deliriously laugh through the entire experience. Dad usually gives you a bath. It’s his special time with you when he gets home from school and I love to hear the two of you playing with your bath toys over the hum of the bathroom fan. Daddy has voices and accents for all the little squirters in the tub and when you are not trying to drink the water, you smile and grab daddy’s wet arm hair and coo and scream and laugh.

Your laughter is so delicious that mommy could eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert. Though I would have to get a side of baby babble, because that is also very nourishing. And mom needs a lot of nourishing these days. I’m a little homesick for familiar faces, spaces and sounds. I’ve never loved change. But I’ve always loved the idea of change.

Starting out new somewhere involves a period of transition where everything and everyone is new and you have to date new places, new meetings, new friends and new modes of transportation. Awkward first encounters are to be expected. But with each visit to the new coffee shop, each new AA meeting, each freshly discovered route home from the grocery store, it gets easier. And that’s a lesson worth learning and worth passing on to my baby girl. The quicker you push yourself into the uncomfortable abyss of newness, the quicker you emerge on the other side. When we go to swim lessons, we don’t put our toes in the water and then our thighs and then our heads, we just jump right in, take the shock all at once and we are used to the cold water before we know it! Which reminds me, we are late for swim lessons.

My dear sweet Story Brynne Hesson, one more thing about mommy is that she is always late. But again, like the isolating thing, this doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you or appreciate you or see you and all that you are becoming.

Let’s get kicking - Mom

Ex-Termination: Tips To Get Over Your Ex

Three weeks ago, I lost my best friend and the man I thought I would marry. A woman is entitled to a more than a few days of sorrow, wishful thinking and nostalgia. But when you are ready to put the past behind you and move forward to the next adventure – it’s time to exterminate. You know – get rid of the ex by clearing your mind, clearing your thoughts and clearing a path to the next step. Here are a few tips to get you on your way. They are slowly but effectively working for me, and perhaps they will work for you too:

1. Let go of him, but don’t let go of you. Feel sad, cry, be angry, but be careful not to fall apart to the point you can’t pick yourself up and move forward. Resist the temptation to slide down the bathroom wall and crumble into a ball of salty tears on the floor. I’ve been there, and I know it’s tempting. Slide, but not all the way to the ground. You can’t afford a pity party right now. Something even better is waiting for you. And I know everyone tells you that, but it’s true. Unfortunately, nothing new will come into your life while you are still holding on to the past.
2. Imagine. Accept that you are moving forward, not backward. Imagine a better life and a better partner. A break-up solidifies what you want and don’t want in your next relationship. Think about what the relationship taught you about yourself and use the newfound wisdom to meditate about a new and improved life. What stands between you and the life you want? Is it the right job, the right friends and the right attitude? These are things you can think into action. Positive thinking goes a long way.
3. Re-create your personal space. Do you still have photos of the two of you on vacation flashing through your screensaver? Are you still wearing the locket he gave you for Christmas? Are you still looking at his toothbrush every morning when you step into the shower? Go through your house and take every photo, every memory, every possible cry trigger , box it up and put it in the back of the closet. You don’t have to forget him forever, but you do have to forget him right now. There will be a time when you can take these things out of the closet – but not while you are trying to heal. Remove them at once!
4. Re-arrange your furniture. Move things around the way you always wanted them. Unless you are me, because I already had all my furniture arranged the way I wanted it. The point is that this is your life now and you can give yourself permission to do things your way. Sleep in the center of the bed. Buy a pink comforter cover. Put out the girly placemats. I drank dark roast coffee because he liked it. Now I buy the local beans I enjoy, grind them fresh every morning and make just one cup of coffee. There are some joys and freedoms to being single again, just in your personal space. Explore them, find them, and implement them.
5. Clean. Scrub. Polish. Wipe away his footprints from the floor. Wash the sheets of the bed you once slept in. Purify the shower where you bathed together. Eliminate every hair, every smell and every reminder that he was ever in your home. The smell of his hair gel on my pillow can trigger a fifteen minute cry and distract me from my work. In one tough afternoon, I eliminated all those triggers and gave myself a sparkling new home.
6. Create. Now is the time to start that DIY project you’ve been meaning to attack. Pillow covers to sew? Scrapbooking to do? A short story to publish? Channel your anguish into creating something meaningful to you.
7. Write. In al-anon, they teach you to process feelings by writing. It works. Carve out time in your day to write out your feelings in a journal that no one will read. Start by making yourself write at least three pages. Do this for yourself. After about a week, you will find your hand flowing over the page. Writing is a safe way to get out your fears, your hopes, your anguish, your guilt and all other sorts of feelings. And right now, you need to get it out. Too many people stuff their feelings with food, or alcohol, or work, or activities. They are not recovering – just avoiding their feelings. Real healing begins when you accept and acknowledge your feelings. So get them out!
8. Talk. Your friends and family want to help you right now, let them. They will help you process your feelings in a safe and protected way. They will keep you from going below the line of no return. Fight the urge to isolate. It feels right to stay in your apartment with the shades drawn, the remote firmly in your hand, ice cream nearby and your ringer off. But it’s only avoiding reality. You are not growing on the couch. So call people and talk through the things swimming around in your head. Let some sunshine into your brain. God speaks through others and don’t you want to start hearing the answers to those prayers you’ve been putting out there?
9. Go out. Whenever you have the chance, get out of the house. Go for a walk, meet friends for lunch, check out the new Cezanne exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, go to a First Person Arts Storyslam, check out the free talks at the Library and Ethical Society, take a class at Temple’s Center City extension school, go to dinner with a friend at a new restaurant. Now is the time to get out and explore and discover. On Tuesday’s, I pick up the City Paper and Philadelphia Weekly, spread them out over the kitchen table and start making a list of festivals, concerts, events, movies, stage shows, and restaurants I’m excited about going to see. I get out my outlook calendar and start adding appointments. Then I send out emails inviting friends to join me, filling my life with fun activities. Don’t fill your life so full you can’t feel, but don’t turn down an invitation to meet new people and have new experiences.
10. Avoid Dating. When a relationship doesn’t work out, it is natural to feel rejected and natural to seek affirmation that you are still loveable and beautiful. But it’s also extremely dangerous. It’s dangerous for you because it could just make you miss him more. Or worse, make you rush into something unhealthy just to mask your feelings. It’s also dangerous to others. Using someone else to take away your pain is hurting someone else for your own gain. Stepping on someone else to pick yourself up is never going to get you a better life. I don’t care if he is a dog and you are both using each other. You deserve better – and so does he. Don’t risk the harm to your self esteem. You need to be feeling good about yourself these days, not guilty or predatory. Give this gift to yourself, wait until you have processed before you invite someone else into your life.
11. Succeed. Do something you have always wanted to do! Take the GMAT or foreign service exam. Write a short story and send it off to be published. Join Toastmasters and prepare a speech. Ask for a raise at work. Apply for the job you always wanted. Become an actress. Apply for a reality TV show. Quit drinking and go to AA. Get a personal trainer. Start using that yoga pass. Challenge yourself and feel good about it. Now is the time to accomplish. You are free, go out and get your happiness. Success will bring you better options, better jobs and better people.
12. Be of service. This last break-up hit me hard and sent me deep into myself, tempting to steer me off course in selfish remorse. Someone else could be talking and all I could hear was the sound of my own sorrows. The best way out of this is service. I immediately volunteered to mentor kids at the library. I started making sandwiches for the homeless at Christ Church. I took on a new sponsee. I offered to chair the Saturday morning meeting. There was great relief in thinking about someone other than myself. I know it doesn’t seem to make sense, but trust me. Find somewhere in your community where you are needed. Find a friend worse off than you that could use someone to talk to. Can you help a friend move? Does someone at work need help stuffing envelopes? Can you make dinner for a sick friend? Helping someone else will boost your self esteem, help you reclaim your brain, and make the world a little bit easier for someone else.
    

Break-ups are just hard. No matter the length of the relationship, no matter the person, no matter the circumstances. If you loved deeply, you are now experiencing great loss. These tips will bring you relief, but nothing will stop the inevitable pain that accompanies the end of a relationship. Just keep walking through it. There is a big light at the end of the tunnel, don’t stop in the middle and go back. Keep moving towards the light. I’ll be there waiting for you on the other side.

The “B” Word

How could I be back here again? How could I be right back here, smarting from the same wound inflicted over a year ago?

This is how it begins, "You have a boyfriend? Have I met him?"

Gabe thinks he is funny. He is responding to the word that has slipped out of my mouth during our phone discussion about the details of our upcoming weekend.

But it’s not funny. Should I think it is? Should I just laugh and let it go? Or should I feel like an asshole for just calling Gabe my “boyfriend”, for like, the third time this week. At least this time, he stops me. But now I'm totally embarrassed.

And I shouldn’t be. This man adores me completely. He is falling for me more and more each day. What we are doing, what is happening between us, transcends all these stupid words. We are creating something really great. Right?

So, why does this particular benchmark in a relationship cause me so much duress. And why am I so pissed right now that I want to go out and fuck someone else?

Why? Because that is what I did last year when a man said the exact same thing to me. And Gabe knows this.

I hang up and go back to work.

He Texts: You can call me your boyfriend if you want. I don't mind.

Insensitive. Why does this shit piss me off so much? I read the message again and this time it makes me so angry that fucking water comes out of my eyes. I'm so angry that this water starts gushing and spilling onto my freakin’ phone and it won’t stop. And I know it's ridiculous.

I Text: That's a kind offer, but I'm not pushing anyone anywhere they aren't ready to be. I'm cool with "friends".

After I press send, I get that horrid, painful, wrenching itch. And it's in a place I haven't allowed myself to feel for a very long time. And I want toscratch it. The ball of anger, disappointment and resentment begins to churn and burn and pick up intensity as the tempest swirls within.

He texts: I only tease you about it because you make it a big deal. It's just a word and more accurate than friend, I think. But go with whatever is comfortable for you.

I have the urge to throw the phone across the room. I have the urge too implode, to sabotage, to behave immaturely.

He texts again: As for me I haven't been a boyfriend or had a girlfriend in quite awhile and it might be fun. Let me know if you know someone who's looking for a job like that.

And suddenly, it is November 27, 2005. R has met me for a late dinner at Lucky Strike in Soho. My Mother is visiting from Seattle for Thanksgiving and I left her sipping cocktails with my sister at a bar around the corner to come meet R for a late dinner. It's the only time he has to spare. He's been working on the set fourteen hours a day. He took one weekend off in the past month and has just spent it with his family in Jersey. While rested from the three days away from work, he still seems tired. Perhaps from the drive back to the city. He came back to try and get one last late dinner in with me before the torture of his job begins again. But I can't help thinking that he could have made a little more time.

We are finishing dinner when I say it. "What would your girlfriend say about all the time you have been spending with me in dimly lit Manhattan restaurants?"

He looks confused. "Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend."

I wink at him and tilt my head to the side.

"No girlfriend?"

His confused expression melts away as he realizes what I’m saying. "I mean, I think we are going there, but we aren't there yet."

Oh God. I'm such an ass. I realize how ridiculous I must look, my head tilted at this angle, my eyes gazing up at him with batting eyelashes, my retarded smile of assurance that I am in a committed relationship with a man that is completely crazy about me. It was an accident.

I hadn't meant to confront the question. It was just an innocent turn of the conversation.

I'm an idiot. His response surprises me. For the past month, he has sent me 15 texts daily, each starting with the words 'Honey". And lately, when we stand in my doorway, lips locked, legs intertwined, his hand gripping mine tightly, trying to pry our bodies apart so he can leave for work, I have a hard time letting him go.

And here he is, chomping French Fries off the late night menu in some trendy cafe, telling me that we aren't both thinking the same way about one another. And it hurts.

Extraordinarily.

I let go off his hand under the table. "So, I'm not your girlfriend?"

"Well, not yet."

"So, I'm single than?"

"Well, you aren't married. "

"But, I don't have a boyfriend?"

In my mind, if I don't have a boyfriend then I'm not in a committed relationship. And if I'm not in a committed relationship than I am single. And if I am single than I am dating other people. I'm not dating any other people, and I know he doesn't have time to be dating other people. So, this shit is whack and I should be dating other people. Fuck that.

R excuses himself to the bathroom. I pick up my phone and see that I have a new text.

The Text: Hope you don't mind, but your mother gave me your phone number. I was your waiter tonight and I have to see you again. Sushi on Wednesday?

The Israeli born model that waited on my table an hour ago seems to think I am single. And obviously, my mother, who has been in town for the past five days and not even seen the back of R's head, also thinks I'm single. And clearly, the man I thought was my boyfriend, he thinks I'm single too. So then, what should stop me from going out with a single, gorgeous, man that wants to buy me dinner, listen to me talk, make me feel important and wanted?

R returns to the table, we get the check and leave. On the corner of Grand and West Broadway, he turns me around and grabs my face with both his hands.

"Jane, are we okay?"

I look at the fear in his eyes. He doesn't want to lose me. But he’s willing to allow a word to take that risk.

"I feel stupid R. Like a fool. I just thought we were doing something different."

"We are. I just don't know why we need the titles and the labels."

"Yeah, it's stupid. I know."

He smiles. Because he thinks it's okay. But it isn't. After he puts me in a cab, I can't stop thinking about that simple word and what it means. I finger my cell phone in my pocket. And then I decide. I take out the phone and text the Israeli.

I Text: I could be convinced.

And he must have got more than my phone number from my mother, because the next day, two dozen orange tulips show up at my office.

We meet at Bond Street for sushi. He is charming. He talks me into a walk in Washington Square park in the dead of winter. In the park, he throws me up against a statue in front of six cops cars to stick his tongue down my throat . It feels kinda good. And he wants more. He wants me so badly that I can't resist the comfort of feeling wanted. I take him home and feel wanted all night until the sun comes up. When my apartment door shuts, I pick up the phone. Five missed calls and six text messages are registered on my cell.

His last text reads: Fine. You win. I'm your boyfriend.

But it doesn't feel much like a victory.

And now, here it is. A year since R and I ended our fling. I should have known that morning that things would never work out with R. Why did I care so much about that word? Why do I still?

I stare at the phone and think of an appropriate response to my dear, sweet Gabe.

Proposed text: It's not the word that hurts my feelings Gabe. It's the painful realization that I'm standing somewhere I was a year ago, and I'm still standing there by myself. I hoped I would be with someone that's proud of that. Actions are a better judge, but when you are rarely around each other, sometimes words are all you have.

I don't push send. It’s too f'ing long. Texts are not a place for this discussion. I reread the previous texts and the waterworks begin again. I'm so angry. I'm so done. What an ass. I should run away from any man that isn't proud and honored to call me his girlfriend. I put the phone down. Because while I’m entitled to my feelings, I am responsible for my actions. And I want to pause. I don’t want to react.

But I can’t stop the committee in my head. I can’t stop loading coal into the pity caboose of my own personal pain train headed for unnecessary sufferageville in my head.

Gabe is not the man for me. I'm bored. I miss being single. Sure the sex is mind blowing and it's nice to have the comfort of someone in my life... but let's face it, I haven't really been myself lately. I like being wanted, but do I really like this guy?

He texts: Save all replies for tomorrow. I'm not sure my lightheartedness is coming through the medium of text messaging.

He is right. It's not funny. And I'm not laughing. We are supposed to go away together this weekend to meet some of my friends and I don't want to introduce Gabe to my closest girlfriends as some guy I’m dating. I'd rather enjoy their company on my own. Plus - having him along will fuck up the flirt fest I plan on having after dinner when we all go out to the nearest lounge. I think I might be done. He's a wonderful man, but it's time for me to face the reality that he's not actually going to make the long haul. So what now? How should I break it off.

And just like that, I have taken a simple word and made it the end of me and sweet Gabe. The only man I can ever recall feeling so safe around, so adored and so comfortable with. I’m ready to trash it all, over a word.

And then I realize that while circumstances and other people may not change, I can. Instead of throwing away an entire foundation for a lovely relationship with an undetermined future, I can step back, gain perspective, breathe, and simply say "you hurt me".

"That hurt. That was not nice. That did not make me feel appreciated or valued. It made me feel like we don’t want the same things here. "

And actually, I believe we do want the same things. There is nothing about this man's actions that resemble R. He treats me like he intends to be around for a long while. I'm making this into something it is not. There are many other responses to the problems in my relationships, other than drama and tears and walking out. God, I just want to do one relationship differently.

So I do.

I don’t text back. I call a friend and let it out. She helps me visualize an appropriate response. She helps me sort the facts from the snowballing drama in my mind. Then I try and let it all go. I go back to work. I finish the day, I go to a meeting. I try to throw myself into service. I stack chairs, I volunteer for a new commitment, I go to dinner with a newcomer, I offer to take her to a meeting in the morning. I come home, brush my teeth, climb into bed, and Gabe arrives.

“Ingrid, I’m so sorry.” He says before he has even taken off his coat.

“I shouldn’t have sent those texts. I was trying to be funny”

I pause. “You hurt me.”

“I know. Considering your history, I can see why you would think my teasing insensitive. I want you to know how very proud I am to be with you. I can’t stop telling people how lucky I am to have you in my life. Ingrid, I don’t use it in front of you because I’m afraid it will scare you away. You can be weird about that stuff. ”

He kisses my head and holds onto me tightly. He thinks everything is okay. And it is.

I decide to do something different.

Love Park

It's cold outside, snow is falling and Bus 33 pumps up the heat as it rolls down Market Street towards Love Park. The bus stops at the Courthouse and picks up an old man waving his cane. He is slow. There is shaking from the change in temperature and from the fact he is old. It takes him three minutes to ascend the stairs and slide gently into the first seat. As he flashes his senior citizen pass, the unusually patient driver finally jerks away from the curb.

I watch him from my side of the bus. His eyes are watering from the cold, his chest is pounding from the exertion of his climb. He can barely see me through the folds around his eyes, but he manages to look vacantly across the bus at where I'm sitting. His hands, covering the cane are covered with age spots, bulging veins and cartilage build up.

When the bus driver pulls right onto 20th street, another aged man rises up in the back of the bus. He bumbles towards the front and taps the driver on the shoulder.

"We missed my stop."

"Oh man. You gotta move fast mistah. I can't wait around all day for you to make your way to the front of the bus."

She steps on the breaks and opens the door. We aren't anywhere near the curb when the old man carefully steps down the stairs of the bus and onto the fresh snow. He takes a step, and he falls.

"Aw man. Damn. He fell, " she says to those of us remaining in the bus. I try to avoid eye contact with the old man with the cane.

She opens the door of the bus.

"Can you get up?"

The bus leans West as everyone peers out their windows to see the man lying in the snow. He's flat on his back, as if he is about to make a snow angel. He's flapping his arms but not making any progress. I start to get up towards the door to help the man up, but someone beats me. A middle aged man wearing a puffy jacket that is unzipped to reveal a Philly's sweatshirt, reaches an un-gloved hand down to help the old man up. He takes the aging hand in his, and then he slips and comes to lie next to the old man. There they lie, like two frozen gingerbread men waiting to go into the oven.

Again, I rise. But someone else has already stepped out of the bus and he's helping both men to their feet.

"Take the old guy to the curb," yells the bus driver.

"Damn" The bus driver looks over her shoulder to a woman wearing a ski hat sitting next to me.

"What are these people doing out on a day like this?"

I wince.

The two helpers get back on the bus, laughing and patting each other on the back. The bus driver closes the door and continues her chat with the woman on my left.

"I mean, don't they have someone to take care of them? Really, they shouldn't let these people out alone. Look at him just out there alone."

"Well, I guess they gotta get out. They gotta get groceries."

And the woman and the driver share a laugh.

I wonder if the driver can see that behind her sits "one of them". I close my eyes from embarrassment and hope that the old man with the cane can't hear the chatter. But when I open them, I see that he has. He stares at me, with soft eyes that seem to be pleading for me to understand him.

The bus pulls to a stop in front of my work. I stand up to leave.

"Thanks so much. Have a good day. Happy Valentines Day."

And I step down out of the bus. The doors shut, and the bus moves on, up the hill, towards the next stop.

Privacy Please

“I could never do that. I could never put my picture on Friendster or give people access to information about me on MySpace."

Candy is sitting across from me at Veselka in the East Village, drinking an Ukranian beer. Her skin is bronzed from weekends in the Hamptons and her hair is perfectly flipped out in frosted bleached tips. Even though she speaks with an heir of superiority, she looks over at her boyfriend after everything she says. He is a Republican, so I’m sure she’s afraid she will say the wrong thing and be banished from the bedroom .

“I just value my privacy too much.”

Republican drops his hand into Candy’s lap and squeezes her thigh under the table with pride. With his other hand, he lifts his beer but drops it from his lips to visually rape a young girl passing by in an uber short denim mini. My friend Skippy is busy scrolling through the messages on his blackberry and completely misses the mini skirted chippy.

Candy, the Republican and Skippy are three of the only people that I have met in New York City who are not on Friendster or My Space. Lately, it seems I can’t go out in NYC without hearing a version of, “I’ll Friendster you”. Who needs cards or digits in the age of Google, MySpace, and Friendster. I discovered the merits of Friendster at a wedding party in Los Angeles three years ago. Since then, while my use has ebbed and flowed, it is as reliable as my g-mail for a quick validation. See, I have friends, people like me, people view me.

Skippy rests his texting fingers for a moment and takes a swig of his beer.

“Isn’t Friendster sort of ‘out’ now anyways?”

“Yes. All of the cool people have moved over to My Space. That’s why I like Friendster.”

Candy’s boyfriend rolls his eyes. “Whatever. It’s all ridiculous. And I agree completely with Candy about the death of privacy.”

I laugh. “Republican, what have you got to be so private about? I mean, what’s all the fear about putting your profile on line? No offense, but it is not like you are Brad Pitt and people are stalking you. How is a Friendster profile going to ruin you?”

The Republican begins talking about stalkers and potential clients and all sorts of legal mumbo jumbo and I just sit back and let him fade into a hazy Charlie Brown undecipherable adult and I think how wonderful it is to not be the slightest bit ashamed about having my public life on the internet for anyone and their mother to peruse.

“Jane has a blog.” Skippy sounds like he is telling on me to the teacher.

Candy and the guy who voted for Bush twice just stare at me.

“She was on a reality TV show too.”

Candy drops her jaw and the Christian Right registers shock and horror with raised eyebrows. But then he relaxes, and smiles.

“Candy was supposed to be The Bachelorette. Tell ‘em honey.”

“Well, they asked me if I would be on that show, The Bachelorette, and like, actually be The Bachelorette.” She straightens up her back a little. “But I just said no. I’m not going on National Television and making my life public like that.”

Now I really think Candy is full of shit and just saying this to impress her boyfriend, because women that act and look like Candy don’t turn down the chance to be The Bachelorette. Women who go to tanning booths, have French pediicures, spend an hour a day at the gym, purposely style their hair like Farrah Fawcet, go to places like Butter and wear low cut Marc Jacobs sweaters to an East Village eatery are exactly the type of women who want to be on reality TV. I can see her prancing on the Real World, making out with six guys in a hot tub after too many shots of Jagermeister.

I know, because I was once on a reality TV show. But i’m nothing like Candy.

“Do you really think your life is anymore private than mine? I can track the blogs you read at work, I can Google your name and find out your track scores from high school. You leave your receipt on the table at the restaurant and I have your credit card number. You use the same username and password for your news subscription as your bank account. I can get your job title from a PDF of attendees at your last alumni function. I mean if someone wanted this information, it’s not as if you are a secret.”

“Nice job Jane, but I don’t write my feelings on the internet. I don’t publish details of my last date for the world to see. I don’t have photos of my latest travels posted to My Space or Friendster. I didn’t spend ten weeks having my life filmed on national television and have people in the chat rooms talking about my bra size.”

“Republican, it’s not like I’m avoiding the Paparazzi at every turn. I’m nobody. No one cares about my life. And if a few people want to check out the inner workings of my brain then I‘m happy to have the company.”

“Bloggers are just narcissistic attention whores.”

I know that there is truth in what he is saying. But I can’t let the Right win tonight.

“Yeah you are probably right. Most of them are. But just like some Republicans aren’t judgmental homophobic Christian Right hypocrites, this blogger doesn’t fit that stereotype. I just like to write. I’m a writer. Blogging is a way for me to get my writing out there. Blogging is the only way to get my writing out there.”

Without diverting his eyes from his cell, Skippy throws his head up to give me a little support.

“She is a good writer.”

“Thanks Skippy. But I’m still not going to sleep with you tonight.”

“No worries hon. I’ve got three girls on deck already.’

I’m still not done with Wall Street boy. “What is more narcissistic, being afraid to put photos of yourself on the internet because you think everyone will be seeking them out to ruin you, or putting your thoughts and feelings out into a flooded forum where you are just one of a million?”

Seriously. Who are you afraid of? What are you afraid of? Am I so self-centered that I think there are people out there who will become taken by those pictures of me rolling pita on the floor in Bosnia that they will hunt me down and ask me out? Because those stories are pieces of me. I am proud of my past, my present and where I’m going in my future. So if someone else wants to read it, why should I care?

Writing is a magnificent conduit to the soul. It connects me to the friends I have met overseas, it allows me a forum to share my life with my family, it gives a woman alcoholic a voice in the blogoshpere, it is in itself cathartic and healing. It connects me to people and to a city that can be very lonely without connections. And the feedback makes me feel connected outside of myself, a piece of the world. So that even with consequences, I can’t imagine sacrificing my public life.

Ask me again when I am being dogged by Paparazzi and having to explain stories of my sketch past to a pack of journalist in the Rose Garden. But I somehow don’t think this is the path I’m on. No, I think the path I am on is leading me to a place where it is simply okay to be just your average Jane. Serene, connected, happy in my own skin.

After the bill is paid, Candy and Cheney go home together, Skippy zips off to Aer and his three ladies in waiting, and I walk off into the Village alone. But I’m not really alone. I have 167 friends on Friendster. And three of these friends are on the corner telling me to hurry up or we are going to be late for that party in Gramercy.

The Woodland Park Zoo

“Well there is an example of behavior learned in captivity.”

Betty and I are at the Woodland Park Zoo, the day before I depart for Philadelphia, watching an ostrich peck incessantly at the metal cage that divides us. We have been watching for the last twenty minutes.

“It’s as if he thinks that eventually he will break through.”

“It’s disturbing.”

My cell phone rings and I can barely look away long enough to answer the phone

“It’s Paris calling.” I instantly recognize the French accent speaking to me on the other side of my cell.

“Didier!”

Didier tells me he wants to spend my birthday with me in August. This makes me nervous. I met him a year ago for a night of flirting and unrequited crushing. We have kept in touch. But our monthly phone calls have made us both real. And over the past year I have pretty much erased my fantasy image of him.

Gone is the mystery of that first night strolling through the streets of New Orleans, trying on the idea of something romantic and exciting with this foreign stranger. The last year has changed me. Now I'm afraid of things that move too fast. They feel false. They hurt.

I have to stay focused on my belief that patience and friendship are the true foundation of lasting relationships. I try not to be excited, but I am. More than a little.

I should know better.

I hang up the phone and chase after Betty who has already moved on to watch them feed the tigers.

Re-entry

I hadn’t seen Professor Johnson since grad school. But when a friend called me up needing advice on a conflict resolution program in the Middle East, I knew he would be the expert to consult.

I met him at the Starbucks across the street from my office and he was waiting very gentlemanly near the door without even a thought to join the line snaking in switchbacks towards the back door. Professor Johnson was not worried about getting coffee and he wasn't in a hurry. He was here to see me.

My momentary befuddlement about how to greet my old professor was swept away when he raised his arm and drew me in to a small hug and light kiss on the cheek. Tall, in his late 60’s, with a head of white hair and an honest friendly smile that stretched across his face with relaxed purity, he looked like the ice cream man from a Norman Rockwell painting.

I noted almost immediately that he now had two hearing aids, as opposed to the one he used to adjust during his lectures when his voice would begin to drop to an almost inaudible softness. You know how sometimes when someone lowers their voice; they duck their head like they are telling you a secret that they don’t want others to hear. Well Professor Johnson’s voice would lower, but like you had just turned down the volume on your favorite news program, his mannerisms and gesticulation would be unaffected. He would just keep on giving the news.

“So good to see you Ms. Jane. How have you been?”

And unlike so many people that ask you that question, he really wanted to know the answer. I could feel it.

We joined the Starbucks line. We found a table near the front door. I gave him the quick career run down. But there was something so genuine about him that I didn’t bother to throw in all the hyperbole and exaggeration that often accompany you telling someone from grad school how far you've made it in the real world. There is just something about his easy going and non-judgemental manner that instantly makes me feel safe. Safe, respected and appreciated.

I like that I can tell him the truth.

“And what about you? What’s this I hear about you working in Ramallah?”

With complete lack of ego, professor Johnson begins to tell me about his work negotiating with the PLO. He’s had an incredible career and an exciting life of meeting heads of state, living in the caves with Bedouins and helping resolve conflict amongst a nunnery in Iraq. It was his career path that first inspired me to study conflict resolution. I read his bio when I was selecting classes for my first year of grad school and I knew that one day I wanted mine to contain at least one of the stories I knew he could tell.

“Well, I asked you to meet with me because I thought you might be able to help my friend with a current project he is running in Gaza. He’s got Israeli and Palestinian kids playing basketball together to overcome their differences. He’s thinking about adding an educational element to the program and I think you could help him.”

I tell him a little about the program. And somehow he knows exactly what I’m avoiding trying to say are the weaknesses of the organization.

“Sounds like you might have a little trouble with re-entry. You can take these kids away from their communities and their parents and introduce them to kids that they learn to appreciate as being just like themselves. But when you send that child back home, he has to survive. And in order to survive, he has to assimilate. How do you get him to retain what he’s learned. How do you affect his re-entry into society?”

Then he looks me straight in the eye.

“What’s your attachment to this project Jane?”

And I know that he wants to know where I’m coming from before he answers so that he can only give me the information specific to help me solve my problem myself. That was how he would teach. I would wander into his office hours wanting answers and he would ask me questions. He would qualify my questions and try to help me figure out what I was really asking. Even if I didn’t know.

“Because when I heard this man speak, it inspired me. It reminded me of what we studied. What you taught me. And he’s making a difference. He’s doing it. What all of us talked about. He’s doing it.”

A smile spread across Professor Johnson’s face.

“Well that’s a good reason Jane. I think I can help.”

And we talked and he encouraged and offered consult and made me look at things in ways I never really thought to frame them. Or at least ways I hadn’t thought about in a long time. When we were all finished, I had established next steps and Professor Johnson wasn’t rushing to throw away his coffee cup or looking at his watch. He was really, truly listening to me. He was being of service.

“How did you get into this stuff?”

I asked him because I really wanted to know.

“That’s a good question. Let me tell you.”

And he told me about his brother-in-law being taken hostage by the Lebanese. He told me about moving to Cyprus and commuting illegally to Beirut for six dedicated years to negotiate with terrorist and arrange his brother-in-laws release. He told me about being passionate, being in the right place at the right time, letting things fall into place. And I could see that he loved what he did, and that his path had found him. He was combining what he was good at with the circumstances in his life.

And as if he knew that hearing all of this made me doubt my career path. He leaned across the table and gently encouraged me.

“I think you are going to do great things with your life and career.”

“Too bad you are not a fortune teller.”

“Jane. Look at all you have done with your life. All the different areas where you have gathered expertise. Those experiences are always applicable and can always be pulled forward. You just have to take the opportunities as they present themselves.”

He went on. But his voice dropped. I could see his lips moving and observe his tender and thoughtful expression as he carefully chose words that I couldn’t hear. But it didn't matter, I was lost for a moment in my own head.

I sort of felt this little sting in my eyes. The sting you get when you read Hallmark cards or watch the Lifetime movie of the week. I felt a little, well, emotional. In broad daylight, in the middle of my work week, on a lunch hour mere steps from my office, I actually felt something real.

Professor Johnson was demonstrating for me what it meant to make a difference in other peoples lives without ever having to fly to Bosnia and live in the middle of a war zone. Without even having other people understand exactly what you were trying to say.

“Thanks Professor.”

“You know, you don’t have to call me that anymore. The name is Bill.”

But we both knew, he was still my teacher.