Love among the stacks

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say."
-Anais Nin

Something about it felt illicit. After all, I wasn’t supposed to be there. I’d run away (again) from the bells and schedules, slipping down the halls unnoticed, hiding amongst the oft-ignored shelves.

He knew that I was there. I could feel him watching me from his desk as he stamped and catalogued. “You’re different because you love it here,” he’d told me the first time he deliberately “forgot” to ask me for my pass. I sat curled-up in a corner of the quiet library, lost in the pages that the others saw as obligation.

I had an odd bond with this man. Mr. Spear (“like the thing you throw,” he’d always say and chuckle proudly at his little joke) was the stereotypical embodiment of his occupation: bespectacled, quiet, he had a few stories that he routinely told me. My favorite being the one about a friend who owned 6 cats, each named for one of Jane Austen’s novels. “I’d hate to be Northanger Abbey,” he always added at the end. He was a friendly man who let me hide out among the stacks on the days when I wanted to skip biology, concert choir, or Phys-Ed (my three least favorite courses).

It was on one of those afternoons that I discovered her. I’d been looking for something else, when my eyes happened to stop on the fading, nearly illegible words: In Favor of the Sensitive Man and other essays. I placed my forefinger on top of the book and tilted it out slightly. Anais Nin. The name reminded me of the flowery perfume favored by several of my aunts. I pulled it out completely and studied the black and white picture on the cover. It was of an older woman with a childish face. Her long, graying hair was twisted around her head in an intricate braid, and her slim figure was wrapped in an embroidered kimono. There was an aura about her that was at once inviting and exotic. I immediately wanted to know who this woman was.

I brought it back to my chair where the book released a tender sigh as I cracked its spine for seemingly the first time in years. A turn to the faded names and dates on the brittle card in the back revealed that it had indeed been nearly two decades since it had been read. Library books are memento mori; relics read and left by students past. I thought of the others that once rummaged through these stacks—uniformed ghosts that had long since left their adolescence behind. I gently turned the pages, at first pausing randomly over the paragraphs, then hungrily going back and devouring each of the essays. The writing was dreamlike, erotic, and completely out of place within the crucifix-studded walls of my Catholic high school library. In those passages I recognized the feelings I’d long been unable to explain.

I worked my way through her words until Mr. Spear gave me the look that meant that he could no longer afford to hide me. There was something about it, though. I was loath to return it to its spot, and yet I didn’t want to check it out for the maximum two weeks. I wanted it. And not just that title, I wanted that very same book. I wanted to take home the musty pages, the fading cover. It was love at first read and I didn’t want to let go. And so, with only a slight hint of guilt, I slipped it into my black nylon book bag and walked out with the broken eighth commandment hung casually over my shoulder.

That afternoon marked the beginning of a love affair that has spanned a decade. After that moment I sought out Nin’s work in whatever form it appeared. I amassed every volume of her revolutionary diary, as well as the many volumes of fiction, erotica, and literary criticism. My favorite of these was—and still is—the intimate collection of letters she exchanged with Henry Miller, her long-time lover, friend, and literary colleague.

I was fascinated by her ethereal use of language and intrigued by her life. She was brilliant, damaged, and brazenly naked. Her work is a stunning juxtaposition of aching fragility and unapologetic strength. I find comfort in her words, often seeing bits and pieces of myself as she details her struggle as a writer, her desire for passion, her constant need to transcend reality by imagination.

Today, as I searched for a book among my own collection, I came across that well-worn copy. The catalog number is still printed in a typewritten font along the yellowed spine. Holding it in my hands, the scent of the pages transported me back to Mr. Spear’s library. Once I again I was that 14-year-old girl in droopy kneesocks and pleated plaid, escaping from the tedium of required classes in an attempt to find something bigger. It’s far from my favorite of her books, but it’s one that I hold dear for it introduced me to a world that I might have otherwise missed.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...*

I am not now a Catholic, although I once was. My boss noted today that being a Catholic is much like being a Marine. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic. I imagine the Pope might disagree with this statement.

Regardless, 14 years of quasi-regular Mass attendance and four years at a Catholic high school (ahem...let's not let our minds wander now, gentlemen...) have made Lent a bit of a habit. So although my current branch of Christianity doesn't really follow the sacrifice-for-Lent tradition, I do.

Last year, I gave up cigarettes and gratuitous cab rides. With the exception of one or two slip-ups, I was a very good little fake Catholic girl. This year I am giving up...wait for it
.
.
.

Cigarettes. And gratuitous cab rides.

I'll be sure to keep you posted on the progress.


*Wild guess. How many blog posts today would you say have the exact same title?

Two corners in a circular room

Moe is one of my best friends. Three years apart to the day, we met when we were both employees of the same organization. To be exact, I was the administrative intern (read: jr. office bitch) and she was the Office Manager (read: sr. office bitch). In other words, she was my boss. She’ll probably be quick to regale you with stories about what a lousy intern I was. She’ll tell you that I hated filing, and spent much too much time blogging and Photoshopping* members of the Republican administration (and sometimes our bosses) into compromising, albeit amusing, positions.

It was my first “real” job, and the epitome of what a summer internship in Washington, DC should be. It was a sexy and silly blend of office politics and real politics, flirting and copious drinking. My memories of it are a blur of margaritas, late-night Metro rides, and men in navy blue blazers. I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned how to handle insurance claims, talk to senile Floridian donors, and score the coveted private back room at Capitol Grille. I learned how to mail merge, how to research and track Federal legislation, and that when a customer service rep reads you a confirmation code, he does not literally want you to write “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie,” on the envelope. I also learned that I hate administration, and that I will never, ever again take a job where I’m required to use Excel spreadsheets on a daily basis.

What I remember most, however, was the friendship I developed with Moe. The two lone girls in an organization dripping with Republican testosterone, ours was an easy and near-instant bond. We discovered our shared quirky humor one afternoon when our boss shut down the office so that we could all attend the premiere of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (I should clarify that it was nerdy Republican testosterone). As we stood outside the Uptown waiting to get in, I glanced at a robin’s egg blue sign hanging above the store next door. “Moe, Moe!” I called to her while excited pulling at her arm. She followed my eyes to the sign and immediately burst out laughing.

Our boss rolled his eyes upon hearing our laughter (a familiar sound in the office). “What is so funny?” We didn’t even bother explain why we were laughing. We both understood that we were standing in front of the world’s most absurdly named establishment.

We were smart girls in ill-suited jobs. We were artists that stuck out from the Capitol Hill powersuit crowd. Moe is also a writer and a blogger, and it is her most recent post that provoked this bit of reminiscing. In it she recounts her awkward, youthful nerdiness. She writes:

"I had a specific outfit that I wore whenever we were going to the library. It involved a red, plaid, pleated skirt; penny loafers, a blazer, and a pair of my sister's old glasses that she used to read with. I didn't require corrective lenses at the time, but I desperately wanted them. They completed "the look" (I'm almost certain Alejandra will have a comment about this)."

She’s right. I do have a comment. An anecdote really:

Moe will probably note that in addition to my refusal to file things, I also liberally violated the accepted superior/subordinate relationship. Our bond was so close that I was never too shy to note when something she did didn’t quite meet my standards. “Moe,” I’d say to her as I walked into the office and saw her dressed in baggy jeans, platform flip-flops, and a t-shirt that said “Joe Mama” across the front. “You’re dressed like a 12-year-old boy! What the hell kind of a work outfit is that? I never want to see that shirt again.”

There were some days, however, when she would wear very cute suits to work. On these days, she would also wear a pair of very attractive black-rimmed glasses. They were impossibly cute, and when paired with the pencil in the hair bun, she looked like quite the stereotypical sexy secretary. All the men in the office agreed, and regularly complimented her on her choice of eyewear. One day, I wandered the four feet between my desk and hers and saw her sexy glasses on the desk. I picked them up, tried them on, and gasped.

"THESE ARE FAKE!!! YOU WEAR FAKE GLASSES!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, much to her chagrin. She scrambled to explain, but by then, all the men had come out of their offices and had learned the awful truth.

I still don’t think she ever forgave me for that one…

Check out The Garden State of Euphoria for more stories about the lovely Moe.


*activities for which I am actually handsomely paid to do today...

Eternity in an hour

There are some mornings when I sit, paperback in hand, just one among thousands of sleepy passengers careening through the ancient tunnels of New York City, and I find myself wishing an impossible wish. I hold my breath and—eyes focused on the blurred mosaics outside the window—I wish that my train would just keep going… Going and going, past my Union Square stop, past Canal all the way down, down, through all of Brooklyn, past Coney Island and Stillwell, crashing right into the icy waters of the Atlantic and beyond...

I’ve always been a bit of an escapist. I slip into the pages I read. I get lost in thought. I sleep to dream.

I often wonder if there are many like me: for whom the reality and the fantasy can also meld so easily. I stare at the faces in my car—the man rustling through the sports page, the NYU girls gossiping in their legwarmers, the young mother calming her screaming child—they all seem so here. They all seem so present. Almost as if that's all there is. And with a mix of fear and pride, I suspect that I’m destined to spend a life weaving fantasies, bridging one world to the other.

My eyes settle on the elderly woman across from me. Her thin hair is pulled back tightly; her face is creased by the years. We stare at each other—two women at opposite ends of a subway car, two women at opposite ends of our lives. And I wonder if she ever has mornings like I did the other day, where she wakes up throbbing and damp, pulling herself away from a dream that was just too vivid…just too good. Does she dream of vodka or the color red or the backseat of a blurry yellow cab? Does she ever find herself invaded by thoughts of a remembered kiss, a breath on her neck, a strong hand pulling at her thighs. I wonder for a moment if this is a part of me that will fade as the years pass. And then I close my eyes, I bite my lip, and I feel the goose bumps beneath the heavy layers of wool and silk as I lose myself in pair of absent arms.

“It’s your imagination that turns me on,” I told him once. Or maybe I never actually said it; perhaps I only dreamt that I did. Either way, it’s true. I seek others like me. Others for whom a word can stretch into a story, for whom a line can bend into a work of art. I want to surround myself with the minds that race ahead while others sit complacently and with the ones who stand still amid the roar. I ache for the comfort of understanding, for that safe, rare place where raised eyebrows are replaced by knowing nods.

The train stops and I’m forced to get out. I’m swept along in the sea of students and office workers each battling to shave seconds off their commute. It’s on these mornings when I pause outside the station, turning down the fliers and newspapers that are pushed my way. I light a cigarette and take deep, deliberate drags, watching the paper burn and the smoke dance and hang in the air above me. And for just a moment, I am that smoke, floating high and dissolving into the day. I love this city. I love my job and the friends that I’ve met since I’ve moved back. I don’t even mind living at home that much. But there are moments when all that I want is to lose myself in the familiar warmth of my dreams.

The ember in my hand goes out and I toss the remains into a puddle. As I walk towards my office, I feel the rumble in the vents beneath my feet, and I realize that though I’ve stepped off for a while, that train has not stopped. I can get off and on as I please, and that, perhaps, is the beauty of this gift.

Volcanoes

The e-mail came in around mid-day. “Just driving thru London and listening to Volcano. Thought of you…”

It was my favorite song while I was with him. We listened to it over and over and again while spending lazy, boozy days in bed. At times, the lyrics felt uncomfortably familiar. Damien Rice's moody voice a constant reminder of the 14 years that separated us. It only bothered me because it bothered him. He’d go back and forth, joking that I was more mature than he, but then noting that in just 4 years he’d be turning 40. “Fourty…” he’d repeat, spitting out the word like a piece of sour candy. I’d stay silent and stroke the back of his head, watching him as he wrapped his mind around that reality.

The irony is that he was such a boy. It’s what pulled me towards him; it’s what made me stay. Tall, clever, bookish, and handsome; ours was part-time relationship built on excess. He was never my boyfriend—he was just the one I thought about at night, the one I spent my weekends with. He was selfish, though. Arrogant too. He talked too much and listened little, but it was the way he looked at me that made it OK. He was fascinated by me. Continuously impressed by the way that I lobbed his clever comments right back at him. One morning, as I stood in the kitchen making breakfast in his t-shirt he looked at me from the bed.

“What?” I asked, noticing the bemused smile on his face. “You’re perfect,” he said, his accent drawing out the syllables. “What are you doing with an old man like me?”

“I’m making you tea,” I said as I poured water into the kettle.

He drank and smoked and partied too much. So much that it was a problem. He was like a volcano waiting to erupt. Slurred phone calls, cancelled dates, days when he went missing. I cried a few times. I hated that I’d let him get to me. And so I put up a wall, and slowly got over him.

He moved back to London. He got help for the drinking. The messages started again, but they were different. Friendly, but stilted. I just wasn’t sure what to make of it. I didn’t really want him as a friend, and I’d already shut down the other part.

“Come to London,” he asked me. “I’ll take care of everything…”

Three times he's offered over the course of the past year or so. Three times I've refused—the most recent being a few days ago.

It’s an offer that few would turn down. A trip abroad, to a city I’ve always adored, with a man I once thought I did. But I can never bring myself to accept.

When I got his message today, I searched for the song in my library and listened to it a few times. Memories and feelings rushed back like a wave. Strange how bad ideas can sometimes seem less so when you feel a little bit lonely, a little bit sad…

“I still love that song,” I finally replied. Just not him.


The song.

Snow days

I loved snow days growing up. Those unexpected holidays in the midst of the long gray months between Christmas and spring. At night I’d pay close attention to the weather report. I had a girlish crush on Sam Champion, the tanned, broad-shouldered local weatherman on Channel 4, and when the words “nor’easter” or “cold front” escaped from his lips, it was all I could do to keep from kissing the television screen.

Those were always sleepless nights. I’d slip out of bed every couple hours to check the progress of the snow accumulation on nearby rooftops, wondering whether it would be just enough for them to cancel school. Leaning against the radiator below my window, I’d press the tip of my nose against the cold glass panes and watch as the falling flakes danced and floated in the moonlight before gently settling down on our driveway.

The calls always came in early—just shortly before 6am—and without even waiting for my mom to tell me that classes had been cancelled, I’d shut off my alarm and finally settle into the deep sleep that had escaped me all night.

I loved the lazy mornings. My brother and I would wander down to the kitchen around noon, and pour ourselves bowls of sugary cereal. We’d bundle up in layers and tumble off the back porch into the snowdrifts that had piled on our lawn. After a couple hours of rolling about in the snow, we’d drag ourselves back in and drop our soggy clothing into a pile in the bathroom. The rest of the day was generally spent napping, watching cartoons, and sipping microwavable hot chocolate.

My dad usually had to go to work these days, and Gab and I would watch as he grumbled and braced himself for the bitter cold. He would blast 1010 WINS, the NY radio station, and try to determine the best route to his office.

“But it’s snowing!” My brother and I would protest as my dad kissed us good-bye, not understanding why he couldn’t stay home and play too.

What I think that I loved about these days was they way that they seemed to freeze time—if only momentarily. Work, school, practices—nearly everything was suspended by the snowy blanket. The cars stayed off the roads and most of the stores were closed. Life was quiet, and play seemed to be the only order of the day.

Yesterday they were predicting an awful storm for the area. Before leaving work, I received an e-mail announcing that if the storm took hold, we would be able to work from home at our discretion. For the first time in a long time, I felt that feeling of childish anticipation. Unlike most adults, who were praying that the storm would bypass New York and make the commute easier, I hoped that I’d wake to find piles of impenetrable precipitation on the ground.

Last night, just before getting into bed, I found myself as I’d done so many years ago—nose up against the glass, my breath fogging circles on the window panes, watching for the snowflakes, and praying for the unexpected break that only nature can bring.

They don't drink Fosters

I'd like to welcome a second transpacific blogger to my blogroll. Alaina, one of the cleverest girls I know, has started a blog to keep us all posted of her lives and times as an American grad student in Melbourne, Australia. If booze, sarcasm, and political incorrectness are your thing, then you are sure to love it. I'm also hoping for a healthy dose of gratuitous shirtless footy player pics (hint hint). The blog is called Laina Down Under, but it's the URL that makes me wicked happy. Find her at: wedontdrinkfosters.blogspot.com.

What Do Doozers Do?

I sometimes get Google image search cravings. I'll be sitting at work, trying to figure out the best way to word something when a craving will hit. I'll start thinking about a book I read when I was seven or a tv show I used to watch, and suddenly I'm overcome with an intense desire to see it. So I pull up Google image and type away. Today's Google image search craving was of the Doozers from Fraggle Rock.

I just started thinking about their cute little green bodies, tiny construction hats, the way they built entire cities from radish sticks, and before I knew it I had to see them.

When I was a little girl, I had an entire collection of Fraggle Rock books, and my favorite was "What do Doozers do?" I read it dozens and dozens of times, but I can't for the life of me remember what exactly it is that Doozers do (did?). I know that they were always building, so I guess they were mainly architects, engineers, and construction workers.

I do remember thinking that the Fraggles were rude...knocking down and eating the Doozer cities, waking up the Trash Heap to ask for advice, stealing radishes from the Gorg's garden... Plus, they used to drive Sprocket, the dog, crazy. If you'll recall, they lived under Doc's house. Doc was an inventor and had zero clue that there was an entire universe under his house, but poor old Sprocket knew...

Through my Googling, I came across an article about Doozers that explained that they actually appreciated it when the Fraggles ate their buildings because it gave them room to create bigger and better ones. They saw destruction as an opportunity to rebuild.

I've recently been working on building a website for myself. I worked on it for quite a while, but it was never exactly right. Each time that I tried to fix it, it would only get worse, and I was becoming increasingly frustrated. Finally, this weekend, I decided to just go for it. I knocked it down. I even went a step further and just deleted the whole thing. It was tons of work, but as long as I had that code sitting on my computer it was keeping me from really going for what I want.

Now it's gone and I have to start from scratch, but I'm actually pretty excited because--like a Doozer--I now have the opportunity create something even better than before.

That blessed arrangement; that dream within a dream*

I've been trying to go back and tie up all my loose blog ends by completing and posting those entries that I'd left unfinished and stuck in draft mode. This is one that I started back in the Fall, and have only just now completed.

"Matching Christmas sweaters..."

Vanessa and I were sharing plates of homemade pasta at a little Italian restaurant near her office. She was temping and I had yet to start my job, so we took our time--dipping bread in peppery olive oil, sipping Chianti. The place was a rare find among the generic Lexington Avenue sandwich shops and make-your-own salad places. It's the kind of NY Italian you miss when you're far from home: checkered tablecloths, yellowing photographs of Sofia Loren, and the Best of Dean Martin swelling out over the loudspeakers.

We had been talking about our impressions regarding marriage. Neither one of us is ready to "go there" just yet; we each have a list of things that we'd like to accomplish first, and an idea of who we'd like to be as women before we're ready. Unlike those who rush about like the White Rabbit, afraid that they'll miss something, we're willing to take our time. This does not, however, preclude our willingness to talk about it. I was about to be a bridesmaid for the first time, and we were trying to figure out what exactly that thing is that makes two people say: "Yeah, it's you. It will always be you."

"I'm telling you...matching Christmas sweaters," Vanessa repeated. "That's what I think of when I think of marriage. Fuzzy yarn reindeer with little pom-pom noses. Ugh."

I laughed. "You guys will never wear matching Christmas sweaters. You know that... For me, it's more like always having someone to eat breakfast with on Sundays. You know, lingering over coffee and swapping sections of The New York Times."

Her face brightened and she nodded, "yeah, I do love Sunday breakfast with him."

The conversation drifted elsewhere, but later that afternoon I started thinking about what we'd said. I realized that the things we had each described had absolutely nothing to do with marriage itself. In fact, they were little more than decontextualized images symbolizing our respective fears and desires when it comes to relationships in general.

For Vanessa, it's the loss of individuality; her fear of one day not being able to recognize a self apart from her relationship. For me, it's the yearning for constancy; a desire to finally have the opportunity to build and grow a connection with one person. We both know and understand that marriage is much more than just the wedding, and certainly more than Sunday papers and--God forbid--matching Christmas sweaters, but it's still difficult to separate these ideas from the reality we both understand lies beneath.




*Come on now...what's the quote from?

Classy

The following is an excerpt from a recent late-night (approx. 2:30-3:00 am) text convo with BFF Matt:

BFF Matt: Every once in a while, when I start to feel like maybe I can get used to this place,* I end up in a bathroom stall with a guy throwing up on my left and a couple getting it on to my right... What the fuck am I doing here?

Me: Wait...were you pooping? Why were you in a stall?

BFF Matt: Of course... I was going number 2!

Me: At a bar?!

BFF Matt: You know I have irregular bowel movements...it's out of my hands, or maybe my pants...

Me: This is going in the blog.

*BFF Matt lives in Vegas, where he is Teaching for America...

The next day I received a call from him. He wanted to clarify that the bar that he had been at was in The New Frontier Hotel & Casino and featured a midnight bikini mechanical bull riding contest and copious line dancing. I think this was supposed to justify his actions, but really, I think it only makes it worse...

Funky for you

I'm completely obsessed with the new Jill Scott Collaborations album and think that you should be too...

NJ still likes it raw

About a year ago, I posted an entry poking fun at the menu at Flirt, a sushi bar in Allendale, NJ, which features a "sexy" menu. Not long after, the owner found my entry in a fit of self-googling, and sent me a message that I posted here. It seems that he suffers from a bit of short-term memory loss, because I recently got another e-mail from the same person saying pretty much the exact same thing. In it, there was no mention of the first message.

I'm posting it here because I think it's funny and just another chapter in the continuing saga of Alejandra vs. Flirt Sushi Lounge:

Hi,

whilst Google-ing, I noticed your blog and comment about Flirt Sushi...

Since I am to blame for the menu that was not created during lunch
amongst some kids...I figured you might (probably not really) interested
what Flirt is all about...

70% of my clients are 35-40 year-old Mommies with a lot of "me" time.
We're known for our atmosphere and music, and oh yah, the sushi isn't that
awful either according to the "trade" and reviewers. I guess the
stay-at-home-moms that are all bottled up at home wowith husbands that are
too busy to notice how hot they are and forgot about the boob job they
paid for them...like Flirt because it's tarfeted towards them! Yes, we
serve a purpose!!

Most importantly, I guess the add served its purpose as you noticed
it...I'm sure you would have just glanced right over it if the ad was a
picture of the restaurant or my ugly face in it as "the owner" of Flirt.

Just opened one in Westchester too...in case you want to try it before you
knock it again.

BTW, I too think can get a pretty "good" job as I am fluent in Serbian,
Spanish, Portuguese, English (not as good of a writer as yourself I must
admit) and have a couple degrees to go with that.

Best,

[redacted]

Founder
Flirt Sushi Lounges

I'm considering e-mailing this guy and offering him the chance to prove to me just how good Flirt is. I think that a free meal is in order...

Odd Girl Out

My favorite cousin Beri is getting married. I found out—of all ways—through a cryptic MySpace comment, which she left on my wall early this morning. I wasn’t sure I’d understood it correctly, so I asked her.

“Yup,” she confirmed with a laugh. “Crazy, huh?”

In his most recent post, my blog friend Matt from Deglazed described a feeling of acute incredulity in a way that was so perfect it’s not even worth improving. He wrote:

"What I was seeing made so little sense to me that I just couldn’t comprehend it at first. Imagine if one day you woke up, and your best friend was over at your house, and he was hovering 6 inches off the floor, acting as if it were a totally normal phenomenon. Surely for a second you would be flabbergasted. I mean, this is just plain NOT POSSIBLE… right?"

This is exactly how I felt when I heard her news.

Only a year and three days older than me, Beri is probably the family member (outside of my immediate family) with whom I am closest. Even though she has lived in Puerto Rico her whole life, we’ve always managed to keep in touch through long e-mails, occasional postcards, and fairly regular phone calls. I usually visit the island about once or twice a year, during which we two are inseparable, spending days lounging by the pool and dancing late into the night.

In the fall of '05, she came to visit me in DC for a few days. She fell in love with the city and the life I led—I was the only one in my entire family that had moved away from home and into her own apartment. She decided that she would like to move to DC also, and so together we started making plans. The calls dwindled down though, and by Christmas I knew something was up.

“I met someone,” she told me, barely able to contain her giggles.

I shared her excitement, but inside I knew what that meant. I’d been losing friends to relationships at an alarming rate and so I quietly accepted the change that was about to come.

That spring, when I traveled to San Juan for a week, the difference was palpable. I spent most of my vacation reading by the pool in my hotel or walking along the beach with the company of my iPod. She and her boyfriend took me to dinner one evening, and as they drove me back to my hotel, she turned to me and said, “the bar in your hotel is really cool…you should go.” I asked her if she’d like to join, but she replied with an apologetic look: “I think we’re just going to bed…” I checked out the bar, which did, in fact, look “really cool,” but I’ve never been the type to go to a bar alone and ended up going back to my room where I spent the night smoking and writing on my balcony.

The night before I returned to DC, we gathered at an older cousin’s house. With the exception of my little brother, who was in Kuwait at the time, the entire family was there. It was then that I noticed the way that time had seemingly fast-forwarded since my last visit. All around me, my now-married cousins huddled with their spouses, bouncing babies on their laps or discussing mortgages and investment properties. Beri, who’d once been my partner in crime in these situations, was now—with serious boyfriend in tow—officially welcome at the married table. I hovered uncomfortably, not quite sure where I fit in. Much too old to play with the children, but not quite at the level of the “married ones,” I settled near the bar, sipping wine from my cousin’s collection and chatting with all who asked about my “exciting” life in the city. I felt like a novelty: I was the "independent career girl," the “cousin from New York.”

As anyone from an “ethnic” background would probably understand, there is something a little uncomfortable about going back to your native land. Even a place like Puerto Rico, which is growing more and more Americanized each day, can still feel like a world away. Their way of life is slower and quieter. The accent lilts like the waves, and though I can pick it up quite easily, it seems as if my slang is always just a little bit off—my pace is just a little bit too fast.

Near the end of the night, Abu (short for Abuela), my 90-year-old grandmother and reigning matriarch of the family stood to say a few words. As she spoke, I watched the great grandchildren playing on the floor and looked around at my uncles and cousins. Everyone had a hand to hold or a body to lean against. They were all neatly divided into twos. As I leaned against the cool stucco wall of my cousin’s house, the space beside me felt noticeably empty. In my heart, I’ve always felt a little bit different than the rest of my family. It’s the product of growing up with a different culture and language. But this night, for the first time, it was more than just a feeling.

The choices that I’ve made set me apart from my cousins. I couldn’t imagine getting married right now. And yet, I can't help but feel a bit of a heart-tug as I watch my cousins and many of my friends start to pair off. Their lives seem tidy and ordered, while I exist in what feels like a state of constant entropy, haphazardly barrelling towards a goal that I've really only half-defined. Growing up, Beri was the cousin that was most like me. I took comfort in that, recognizing bits of myself in this family that could sometimes feel so alien. For a long time we lived separate, but parallel lives, but now she has taken off in a very different direction. I know that in a few years time I will have caught up, but I also realize that those dreams and plans we made with each other are probably not going to happen now.

*****

I should note that despite my personal melodrama, I'm still very excited for her and cannot wait to watch her walk down the aisle. I suspect that I will shed a few tears, drink lots of champagne, and--given the lack of competition--add another notch to my bouquet-catching belt (I was 3 for 3 last year).

Live. Reproduce. Perish.

As one who often gets a little too caught up in all things virtual, I found this little Second Life satire, which was sent to me by a certain robot blogger, to be particularly amusing.

And to answer that question: Yes, I Second Life...

Why don't we paint the town

For my birthday, which was this past weekend, I bought myself a Wacom tablet and pen. I've been playing around with it--just a few doodles and sketches, while I work on getting the feel down. This is a little sketch that I did last night and was really happy with. I was going for a jazz singer, but my friend said she reminded him of an actress or 1920s radio personality "out on the town." I like that idea... I've been bitten by the creativity bug lately, and I'm bursting with the urge to create. I'm hoping that good things come out of it...

Do you come here often?

It’s not written about very often, but most women know that the iPod is much more than just a spectacular little mp3 player—it also happens to be the best line of defense against unwanted male attention. The second I slip those little white buds into my ears, it’s as if I’ve wrapped myself in an invisibility cloak. I no longer have to worry about mumbling “um…I’m seeing someone” or “sorry, I’m not interested” at strangers who ask me if they can “just talk for a minute.” Instead I can just walk on by, completely oblivious to the comments. In the rare case that eye contact is obtained, a simple shrug and point to the ears will generally suffice. [Note: This trick also works with panhandlers and those creepy people who cover themselves in silver robot paint.]

After spending nearly six months without an iPod, my reentry into the earbud wearing ranks has proven refreshing and even a little bit freeing. I was just starting to get comfortable, just starting to lose that feeling of always being watched while running errands or commuting to and from work, when I met him—the man for whom the word “persistence” must have been created.

The scene: Atlanta Hartsfield Airport
The time: late last night

I was returning home from a business trip and while waiting for my flight, I decided to watch a few episodes of ATHF, which I’d recently downloaded from iTunes. I was completely immersed in the show when I realized that a shadow had descended upon me. Three well dress men in their early thirties had surrounded me and were talking among themselves in Spanish. I lowered the volume for a second and realized that they were talking about me.

“She’s so pretty,” said the tallest of the three. “Wow, she’s pretty. Do you think she can understand us? She looks Latina.”

“No I think she’s Italian,” said one of the others. “You should talk to her in English.”

Please keep in mind that these men were literally standing 8 inches away from me.

I lowered my eyes and focused on the tiny screen in my hand. After a few seconds, they walked away and I relaxed. I got into the show again and had nearly forgotten about them when I noticed that the tall one had come back and was now sitting in the empty seat next to me and facing in my direction. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking to me. I stared at him for a second and pointed at my ears. He kept talking.

“This must be what it’s like to be deaf,” I thought to myself. I frowned at the guy and then finally removed one bud. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t hear you. I’m watching a show…”

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word that I’d said.

“Um,” I stammered. “Thanks. I’m going to watch my show again now. Bye”

I put the headphones back in and did my best to concentrate on the show, but I couldn’t help notice the fact that he hadn’t budged and was apparently still talking to me.

I took the earbuds out again. “When I have these in, I can’t hear you. Ok?”

“Sooo beautiful.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or run away. Fortunately, they had already started boarding and so I quickly packed up my stuff and got in line. The plane was large and only about a third of the way full. I took my window seat near the middle and had the entire row to myself.

For about three minutes.

“Can I sit here?” The tall man asked as he settled into the seat next to mine. His friends walked by and high-fived him.

“Lucky!” One of the three shouted. They took their seats a few rows behind us while I immediately started searching for the emergency exits.

“So…” tall guy started, leaning into my already crowded seat. “Where are you going?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“I’m going to Newark,” he offered.

I looked at him. “You know this is an airplane, right?”

“You’re so beautiful…”

I turned up the volume—ignoring the “turn off all electronic devices” warning—closed my eyes, and fell asleep. I woke up about 30 minutes later to find an empty seat next to me. Relieved that he’d finally given up, I raised the armrest and waited for the flight attendants who were coming down the aisle with snacks. I was trying to decide whether I wanted a granola bar or pretzels when the male attendant leaned down over me.

“That gentleman in the back has purchased you a drink,” he said.

I laughed nervously as the attendant turned around and shouted at the woman pushing the drink cart. “Hey, someone bought her a drink so give her whatever she wants. Ok?”

“Oooooh,” squealed the drink lady. “Aren’t you lucky?”

By this point, everyone on the plane was turning around to see who the girl getting the free drink was. I sank in my seat and laughed half-heartedly.

“So what’s it gonna be?” she said when she had wheeled her way to my seat.

“Whatcha got?” I asked, expecting the standard airplane drink menu of whiskey, scotch, Bloody Mary’s and wine.

“How about something fun? A mojito, perhaps? With fresh mint? Or I have new mango vodka! That’s good with cranberry juice…”

“Yeah, I’ll take the mango,” I said.

“Hey Tracy!” the flight attendant shouted back towards first class. “Do you have the shaker?”

Tracy brought down a shaker, and I watched as she measured out vodka, ice, and cranberry juice and shook it with all the flair of a professional bartender. She garnished the drink with a fresh lime and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said and took a sip. It was unexpectedly good.

The plane started to hit a bit of turbulence and the seatbelt sign came back on. I took comfort in this, hoping that it would mark the end of Mr. Persistent’s courtship. Moments later another flight attendant leaned into my seat.

“That guy would like to buy you another drink and he asked me to give you his card.”

I tried to mask the tortured look on my face, but she picked it up and laughed.

“I’ll tell him thanks, but no thanks?” She offered helpfully.

“Please. Thanks…”

Once the flight landed I grabbed my things and barreled out of the plane. I had to use the restroom but I pictured him waiting for me outside so I practically ran to baggage claim where my mom was waiting to pick me up.

“Let’s get out of here,” I told her. “Quickly.”

“What happened?” She asked with a look of alarm.

“Oh, I’ll tell you on the way home…”