March 22, 1978

The Formative Days

This Life of Mine

The Parade of Doormen
Your father is overseas, they told me. I pictured him swarthy and strong in a yellow slicker on the deck of a boat. Imagined him doing battle with an angry sea. There may have been pirates. I was only four years old. The biggest thing about me was my hair. My parents had separated before I could crawl. None of it made sense to me. On excursions with my nanny or grandmother I looked for my father in every man I saw. I was something like the confused baby bird asking one animal after another whether she might be his mother, but unlike him I kept my question buttoned up as tightly as my navy pea coat. On Park Avenue we'd stroll by grand apartment buil

The Power That's Contained in Potential
All my charms had consolidated, finally, in my twenty-fourth year. I was the total package. Hourglass figure? Check. Long, shiny blonde hair? Check. Brains? Check. But I'd always had those. It was only the rest of me that had had some catching up to do. Not coincidentally, two men wanted to marry me that year. One was married. One was twenty years older than I. But I was in a relationship, albeit a dying one. My boyfriend had been done with me for at least a year. I was keeping my eyes tightly closed to that truth. Still, I was not above flirting. I was enjoying the kind of power I'd never had in high school. And when the married boy -- he was still

It's Turkey Palooza Time!
Today I'm not here but there! IB, who loves Thanksgiving, is gleefully overseeing "The Idiot’s Super-Duper-Amazing-Pre-Thanksgiving-Holiday-Extravaganza-and-Parade (aka Turkey Palooza)." He invited several bloggers to post at his place on the subject of, you guessed it, Thanksgiving. Though we may lack IB's fervor, we all like Thanksgiving well enough. Or do we? Click over to Idiot's Stew if you want to know how my boys feel about Turkey Day. Happy c

Bits and Pieces
Hello! (waves) It's been a while, hasn't it? I've got nothing. Nothing. (palms up) Unless you want to hear how Oscar the cat knocked my laptop off of the table? No? Yeah, I thought so. At least the computer wasn't damaged. (How in hell wasn't it damaged?) Maybe you'd like to hear about my twelve-year-old? Who responds to every single thing I say to him with a sigh -- that is, when he responds at all? No? Oh, that's right. Most of you have young children. Why would you want to hear about what comes next? (insert evil laugh) How about Seven? Who won't ever play by himself? That's

Other Voices, Other Rooms*
I lie sleepless in the apartment that was the stage for the second half of my childhood. In daylight, it is my brother's family's home. It is colorful and vibrant. My brother, my sister-in-law, my nephew, they are living lives here, and it shows. It is beautiful. When I close my eyes I see books, and I smell smoke. ********************* My mother has lit her last cigarette of the day. She is reading four books at once. Books are stacked precariously under and around three sides of the bed. It is far too late for me to be awake. There is no one to notice, no one to tuck me in. Maybe my mother is busy tucking in the daughter on the page.