... Because I Have To

Today, I am very grateful to be the featured blogger on SITS , which is a remarkable community of bloggers. The acronym says it all: the Secret is the Support.

Welcome to those who have come here through SITS, and welcome to those who have come here out of habit or just because. I hope you enjoy your visit.

Quite frequently, I read SITS features, and while I miss some on occasion, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that I’ll be the first to quote Kate Jackson.

Remember her?

Back in the days of Charlie’s Angels on television, she was deemed “the smart one.”

I don’t know where she’s taken her brains in the ensuing decades, but I do recall an interview she had with Johnny Carson.

Remember him?

Back in the days of Charlie’s Angels on television, he was the host of The Tonight Show.

I cannot remember exactly the question that Johnny had posed to Kate, but the fact that her answer stays with me speaks volumes.

She was talking about a friend’s son and how that boy wanted to break into acting. Having listened to the child’s interest, she said to him, “Do you want to get into the business because you want to act or because you have to act?”

That’s it right there.

If there’s something you have to do, you’ll be hard-pressed not to do it. No matter how much other things – things you think you want to do – get in the way.

… When I was a kid, my family had a running joke. (We were the running-joke types, which – in my opinion – can be very entertaining.) And this was the routine: If my sister misbehaved, her punishment would be no television. If I misbehaved, my punishment would be no paper or pens.

Because, for some reason, even before I knew how, I had to write.

I remember taking a pen to a legal pad, and working my way across the lines in what appeared to be cursive verse. I’d dot this and cross that (because I knew that was part of the drill), but the lines were nothing but shapes, curves, and sweeps. There was no writing there because I had not yet learned to write the words one might know beyond kindergarten.

And I certainly didn’t know how to do anything cursive…

I was simply pretending.

I was pretending to write.

To this day, I get great relaxation from doodling. If I can just hold a pen in my hand and put it to paper, I am grounded. Even if I doodle the same word over and over again, there is peace in the process.

Even if I then sit back and look at that repeated word and wonder if it is a word…

Let me have my pens and my paper. I need them.

So yes, smart angel, I have to write.

… I hope new visitors from SITS will stop by the links that I shared with Kat (reiterated below).

I also hope you’ll stop by again. You’ll find a new post every Wednesday, an excerpt from my novel every Saturday, and a rerun every Monday.

I welcome your support, and I look forward, too, to seeing what you have to write!

For more, go to:

The Distance From Our Corners addresses issues so many in the sandwich generation are concerned about.

Approaching Los Angeles is a piece that shares my reflections upon overhearing an in-flight conversation and wanting to butt in.

Too Many Machines is my homage to Dr. Seuss. I wrote it back in 1987, when the fax machine was the newest invention… I stand by my prescience.

Monday Reruns: Earthlink, We Have a Problem

(original post-date: March 10, 2010)

Last Friday, a friend called and asked if I was okay. She had sent me two fairly time-sensitive emails over the course of two weeks, and she hadn’t heard from me.

I appreciated her concern and let her know that I was fine (notwithstanding the state of the world). I also shared with her that I had replied to her emails shortly after receiving them. For some reason, though, she never got those replies.

She and I both have Earthlink accounts, so I became curious. I sent myself a test email, and while it showed up in my Sent file, it never reached my Inbox. Hmm….

I went online to the Support Center and saw alerts regarding email outages and a large volume of calls. I figured they were “on it” and didn’t pursue it further. Besides, it was the beginning of Oscar weekend, so I had things to do. You know… prepare a speech, borrow some baubles from Harry Winston, consult with Vera regarding the length of my train, decide on an updo, all that stuff. (And on another astral plane, I had to clean my low-rent apartment in advance of friends gathering ‘round the telecast.)

By Monday, I was ready to get back to my life outside the Academy, and I still was not receiving test emails. I headed to the online Support Center. Seeing no indication of outage alerts, I pushed the buttons that would begin my live chat with a techie named George.

Devoted to the script in front of him, George began his end of our cyber-logue by apologizing for the inconvenience. Then, over the course of 30 minutes or so, he coached me through some maneuvers, ultimately enabling me to receive a test email. Problem solved?

I closed the window on George and did another test. No sale. The problem persisted.

I won’t go into the details of my subsequent pursuits of technical support, but by the end of the day, I had spent about six hours with Earthlink. I tried an actual telephone conversation following the first chat with George, and when that didn't resolve the issue, I returned to online live chatting, the fourth session ending well after midnight. But whether I was communicating with George, Paul, John, or Ringo, the lines they typed were always the same: “I apologize for the inconvenience;” “the problem is solved;” “you will not have this problem again;” etc.

Apparently, there is no statement on their script that says something to the effect of, “We have no idea how to solve this problem, but we’ll do our best to figure it out and we appreciate your patience.”

The thing is, the problem itself is really minor, as computer issues go. I seem to be getting all my other email, and others are receiving mine. I also now know where to look for the emails that are not making it into my inbox. So that part is not so frustrating. What frustrates me is that this feels like another instance of corporate unwillingness to confront a problem candidly.

Granted, Earthlink issues do not lead to cars speeding out of control, and there’s no threat to life here, but please, don’t blame the floormat if it’s not the floormat’s fault. And if you don’t know what the problem is, quit pretending that you can solve it.

Own up, people! Believe me, I’m not looking for perfection. If I were, I’d have to start with myself, and if I ever tell you that I’m taking that on, well… that’s just a load of spam.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Six

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VII

It’s 8:45 when Evelyn goes downstairs to check on Davy. Having been awake for a good three hours that evening, and having had large portions of the protein and roughage The Krosk had prepared for their dinner, he is peacefully sleeping with the television. Evelyn does not turn it off, but because she assumes the audio probably plays a part in Davy’s dreams, she does opt for switching the channels. Something other than the Eight O’clock News, which, in her opinion, should simply be called The Crime Report.

Returning to the project room, Evelyn realizes that she is feeling relaxed and happy. Joy’s visit, the revelations about Angie, and then Ashley’s visit that morning, were all somehow simultaneously exhausting and energizing. They also made her feel present. And now, as she prepares to open another box of old clothing, she realizes that although this quilt project is all about the past, it makes her feel present as well.

She reaches for a slip of folded-up paper.

ADAM AGE 3-6

The last of the babies. And the end of the Seventies.

Evelyn retrieves the appropriate Adam box, and she laughs when she sees the tee shirt folded up at the top of the stack. It features a New York Times crossword puzzle, and she remembers that the tee shirt had come with the clues and a pen so that the owner might complete it.

Davy had bought the shirt because it amused him that such a tiny person might be able to complete the puzzle.

“Well,” Evelyn reasoned, feeling playful during their weekend getaway in Manhattan, “there are a lot of tiny women who are smart.”

“I don’t want to meet the woman who is as small as our five-year-old son, no matter how smart she is!”

“I don’t want you to, either!” Evelyn responded, giggling as she gave her husband a long kiss on the cheek.

They were in a souvenir shop in Times Square, early for the evening’s performance of “Whose Life Is It Anyway?” Tom Conti had just won the Best Actor Tony for his performance in the play, and they were excited to have secured orchestra-seat tickets through the Concierge at the Waldorf.

It was feeling like one of those lucky, magical weekends.

They had arrived in the City the evening before, had a romantic dinner on the Upper East Side and then returned to the hotel. They made love throughout the night. Soft jazz on the radio. Lots of laughter and silliness. A bottle of champagne, pre-ordered by their children and delivered by room service, rested comfortably in an icer within arm’s reach of the bed.

“I didn’t know the nineteenth anniversary was so special,” Evelyn had commented, when the champagne arrived.

“It’s special because it is ours,” was Davy’s reply, which caused Evelyn to give him a teasing glance, as she always did when he said something ridiculously romantic.

And yet, Evelyn thinks now, it would have been nice if Davy’s statement had continued to be true. The past summer’s anniversary—their forty-seventh—certainly was not so special. It was theirs, just as it had been theirs twenty-eight years earlier. But she had no one to share it with. Such an irony; unable to share with someone the very simple thing—a number; a date—that you have in common. Sure, Davy could recognize the number “47.” And he even could read “August 13.” But he had no clue what an anniversary was.

Not a clue.

Evelyn sets aside the crossword puzzle tee shirt that Adam wore without ever trying to fill in its grid.

This will make a nice square on the quilt, she thinks.

* * *

to be continued on March 19th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Winning Words

In my Monday rerun, I mentioned playing Lotto, which I do.

But I don’t stop there.

I’m a gamer by nature, and I love investing a dollar or two into the possibility of getting more than a few in return.

Back in New York, when I worked at the burgers-in-a-basket joint, I started playing “the number.” By which I mean that, every day, I’d invest a dollar (50 cents straight/50 cents box) in the New York Lottery’s Daily Number drawing. My number was 142 (and no, I don’t remember why I chose that particular string).

If my number came in straight (i.e., in order), I’d get $250 for the 50-cent straight bet and another $40 for the box. If it came in out of order (e.g., 241), I’d just get the $40. I cashed in more than a few times, and I may well have remained ahead, if not even. Regardless, I kept playing. You see, that’s the thing about playing the number in a burger joint in Manhattan. Your co-workers play them, too. Not only that; they know your number. So, if it comes in and you didn’t play, well – you’ll never hear the end of it.

One day, I was feeling particularly light-hearted, so in addition to my 142, I decided to bet a dollar straight on a second number. I looked at the dollar in my hand, and read off the first three digits of its serial number: 160.

It came in.

$500 for me.

(Not bad, considering my rent was about $150 at the time.)

A few years later, when I had moved from waitressing to the Ford Foundation (a transfer only gamblers get to make), I was sharing my winning tales with a fellow secretary. She decided that the next time our bosses traveled together, we should play their flight numbers and ETAs and so forth (i.e., whatever 3-digit numbers showed up on their travel documents).

Sure enough, our bosses planned a trip within the month, and when another member of the support staff decided to join our investment in the lottery, the three of us pooled our resources ($4 each) and bet two dollars straight on six different numbers.

And guess what? One of them came in.

$1,000, split three ways.

Not only that, but because the gals I worked with decided I’d brought all the luck to the endeavor, they took me out to lunch.

Nice.

These days, I really enjoy Crossword scratchers. What can I say – it’s the perfect marriage of my gaming ways and my love of words.

I’ve been playing them for several years now, and back in 2007, I was quite lucky just before my 50th birthday. I scratched off enough words to cash in my ticket for $1,000.

Not bad.

Because of my affection for words, though, I can be teased at times. Once, I got a Crossword scratcher that included the words “jackpot,” “fortune,” and “lucky.” Can you blame me for assuming this was the $20,000 winner?

It wasn’t. I don’t even think it was any kind of winner. But I loved the thrill of the scratch.

That’s the other appeal of the Crossword scratchers. They take time. The sense of hope can be prolonged for a bit.

So the other night, as I scratched my latest lottery purchase, I was again filled with that sense that this could be it. The ticket to a small fortune…

When the process was complete, I ‘d not become rich, but I also was not disappointed. I’d scratched off two words, which is the equivalent of breaking even.

Fine. I’ll pay it forward.

But then, I noticed the two words I had scratched:

EASY

YEAR

Easy year.

I’ll take it.

In my opinion, an easy year would be worth all the Lotto jackpots combined.

For lest we forget, stress is also a verb.

Monday Reruns: The High Cost of Low Rent

(original post-date: March 3, 2010)

Back when I lived in New York, there were always neighbors whose rent I envied. On Broadway and 108th Street – my first post-college digs – a dynamic guy named Manny lived next door. He had an expansive corner unit that was easily half-again the size of the apartment my roommate and I shared. And because he’d been there for way more than a few years, Manny’s rent was dirt cheap – significantly lower, anyway, than what my roommate and I were forking over for an airshaft view.

Three apartments and about eight years later, I was living in Brooklyn, on the edge of Park Slope. My then-husband referred to our area as “Park Slop,” and he did have a point in designating it as such. But, we were close enough to the hub of trendiness. High-end retail venues and a variety of great restaurants were just two blocks up First Street, and beyond that were the types of brownstones that inspire one to play Lotto regularly.

When we moved to “the Slope,” we committed to a rent that would soon cross the $1,000 mark. I realize that seems incredibly low by today’s standards, but at the time, it was average, and insofar as my husband and I were the starving-artist types, average was a stretch.

As for the building’s average, that’s another issue. Within weeks, I was once again envying the next door neighbors.

Okay, I probably should clarify that. I didn’t actually envy Blanche and Maria. I envied their rent. Thanks to rent control, they paid about $175 a month. Of course, I should mention that this mother and daughter combo had a relatively small one-bedroom, whereas my husband and I had a fairly spacious two-bedroom. So, while my husband and I chose to share a bed, Blanche and Maria felt compelled to share a bed. Not an optimum situation for a two-generation family pair whose combined age exceeded 100 years. But still: a hundred and seventy-five dollars for a one-bedroom in Park Slope? Really?

Oh, how I used to envy those people who had been around for so long!

And, now… I have become that person.

I’ve lived in my Los Feliz/East Hollywood apartment for more than 15 years, and I still don’t pay as much rent as I paid in Park Slope. But the folks moving into my building? They’re paying more than that Brooklyn rent, even when you factor in the reductions my landlord has had to offer in the current economy.

Yes, I have finally become the neighbor I always envied.

But I’ve also learned that there’s a price.

When you’ve lived in a building as long as I’ve lived in this one, you find yourself saying good-bye to people who have become family. And it’s really hard to see them go.

There were glory years here, and they probably kicked in around 2001 or so. That’s when the sense of sibling-hood among four of us really solidified. It was a good feeling, going to bed at night, knowing that I shared my roof with loved ones.

But almost two years ago, Julie moved. She’s just 40 miles away, but she’s no longer under the roof…

And last weekend, Deb headed back to Colorado, where she will initially share a roof with her real siblings.

So now it’s just Tim and me. The upstairs/downstairs sibs. We were both here for several years before Julie and Deb arrived. Who knows how long either of us will stay?

I appreciate my cheap rent. I really do. Having watched the turnover around me, though, I get a little worried. I don’t want to become the old lady in the building.

But time is time.

The longer I stay, the older I get.

The longer I stay, the less likely it is that I will move.

… I tearfully bid good-bye to my younger surrogate siblings, and I wish them well as they start new journeys. I stay behind, possessing the rent I always envied. Still, though, as I did in Park Slope, I look covetously at the real estate that is just a few blocks up the hill. I play Lotto, and I dream.

Sneak-Peek Saturdays: Excerpt Thirty-Five

A NOTE BEFORE READING: I began sharing weekly excerpts from my novel, The Somebody Who, on June 26, 2010. If you want to begin at the beginning, go here. If you want to read the book in its entirety, head over to Amazon and purchase a copy. (There’s a button on the left that will take you there).

VI

When Evelyn enters the “Quilt Room” that night, she brings with her four new folded-up sheets of paper, all blank. These will represent the boxes that contain Davy’s and her old clothes. And since she has already visited one of those boxes, she puts one of the folded-up blanks into the bowl that serves as her “out box.” She puts the three remaining folded squares into the bowl from which she will draw the next entry.

She settles into her chair and enjoys a slow sip of wine. She is glad to be in the room relatively early. It might mean she’ll get to bed earlier than usual. And that would be good, since she’s made a date to have an early lunch with Judy the next day.

“Okay,” she says to no one, as she reaches into the bowl, “where are we starting tonight?”

When she unfolds the square of paper, she isn’t really surprised. It’s Marilyn, of course, at the age range that Sara now falls within: 15 - ?.

“She just won’t leave me alone,” Evelyn says, laughing ironically as she retrieves the appropriate box, places it on the floor in front of her chair, and opens it.

As she sits, she holds up the rayon wrap-around skirt that tops the stack. The skirt features a subtle paisley print in a variety of green tones that always went well with Marilyn’s decidedly Irish complexion. Evelyn winces as she remembers the auspicious occasion for which the skirt was purchased.

“So, Daddy, what do you think?” Marilyn asked, walking back and forth across the kitchen, as if she were on a runway.

“Very nice, honey. The skirt has an artsy flair; not too conservative. And the black jacket works really well with it. Very nice.”

“Did you confirm your appointment?” Evelyn asked her daughter.

“Yup. Ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Can I use the car?”

“Of course.”

“And Daddy, maybe I could meet you in the Dining Hall after? We could have lunch together?”

“I was just going to suggest that!” her father replied, sounding a bit jollier than the dialogue called for, and therefore arousing Evelyn’s curiosity.

“Ohhh,” Marilyn cooed, hugging her father around the neck, “I’m so excited! I can’t wait to go to college.”

“And any college would be very lucky to have you on campus, sweetie,” Davy replied.

“I better go take this outfit off and hang it up,” Marilyn said then, walking sassily toward the hallway and heading for the staircase.

As soon as Marilyn left the room, Davy looked at Evelyn, and the worry in his eyes was profound. Evelyn waited a full minute to speak, as she knew where the conversation might go, and she knew also that it must not be overheard.

“Which are you worried about, Davy?” she finally asked her husband, after she had heard Marilyn reach the second floor. “That she’ll get in or that she won’t?”

“Both,” he replied. “Both. I realize that we should have discouraged her.”

“How could we have done that?”

“I don’t know. But, she’s just not right for Sarah Lawrence. If she doesn’t get in, that will actually be a good thing, but I know she won’t see it that way. And if she does get in, I don’t even want to think about it. Most of the professors will eat her alive. Or they’ll ignore her. Or they’ll feel uncomfortable around her because of me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just not a fit.”

Evelyn was not surprised to hear Davy’s statements. They had already shared these feelings with each other when Marilyn decided to include her father’s school among the five or six to which she would apply. But early on in the process, it seemed like such a long-shot, academically. Perhaps, for that reason, they both hoped their concerns were moot. But, they both also realized, particularly on this eve of her all-important interview, that Marilyn believed she was a shoo-in. Her father was on the faculty, after all. Admission was a done deal.

“Do you think,” Evelyn asked her husband, “that they’ll admit her against their better judgment?”

“I hope not,” Davy said, “I hope not.”

Evelyn never asked Davy to speak to anyone in Admissions, and in the weeks following Marilyn’s interview, Evelyn never asked Davy if he had intercepted of his own volition. Regardless, Marilyn was not accepted, and the college’s decision was a blow from which she never seemed to recover. For the first time in her life, her father had let her down.

Thinking about it now, Evelyn wonders why Marilyn ultimately chose to settle so close to them in Westchester. She had done well at William and Mary. She made friends quickly, and she enjoyed her classes. And when she came home during school breaks, she spoke positively about the location. She seemed to like Virginia and its southern ways. Evelyn wonders why Marilyn and Barry didn’t stay in Virginia. If nothing else, they would probably have been able to afford a house there.

Thinking about it now, Evelyn wonders why Marilyn chose to punish herself. Surely, in the course of an average week, she must drive by that college a half dozen times. And that has got to hurt. Evelyn does not want to feel sorry for her daughter. The prospect is too exhausting. And the problem should not be hers.

She is thankful that three of Marilyn’s folded squares are now in the “out box.” At least, that’s where they will be until Round Two.

* * *

to be continued on March 12th .

In the meantime, if you want to read a short piece about the back story, click here.

Can You Hear Me Now?

My former neighbor Debbi – of the younger-than-40 neighbor set – teased me once.

“That should be your mantra,” she said.

I knew she was referring to the three words I had just uttered during our telephone conversation. But I hadn’t realized, until she mentioned it, that Say that again? was something I said so frequently that it qualified as a mantra.

“I say that a lot?” I asked.

“All the time.”

When our telephone conversation was over, I thought about what Deb had said. I thought about my apparent overuse of Say that again?, and then I thought about the mechanics of the telephone conversation we had just had. Deb was on her cell phone; I was on my land line. My needing to ask her to repeat what she had just said was a reflection of the technology, not of my hearing nor of my attention span.

When she had suggested my mantra, I asked Deb if other people didn’t do the same thing. (I.e., if other people didn’t occasionally make the request: say that again?) But Debbi was assured in her response. Among all the people with whom she spoke on the telephone, I was the only one who asked that statements be repeated.

As I continued to think about Deb’s and my telephone conversation, I became sadder.

But I wasn’t sad for me.

Rather, I felt sad for the under-40s, whose telephone conversations – cell phone to cell phone – are so regularly interrupted that they don’t even acknowledge it when they’ve missed something.

They don’t even think to inject, Say that again?

I’m guessing, too, that the people who don’t acknowledge missed dialogue are multi-tasking in the moment.

They could be driving or shopping.

Maybe they’re at a restaurant, having dinner with a friend.

Perhaps they are updating their Facebook page or glancing at the television.

They could be watching one of the 24/7 news networks.

They could be watching both the story and the crawl.

The story and the crawl…

In my opinion, we need to lose the crawl.

We need to get back to the story.