Fire at 3rd & Washington

One of the many things I decided for this year is that I am going to listen to my gut more. Even if it's a whisper in the morning that maybe I shouldn't take 280 to work. I usually ignore that urge and those are the days there's some sort of disaster that translates into a three hour commute. Last night, when I got back into town from Newark airport, I decided to walk home from the PATH on Washington, which I never do.

When I got to 1st, I saw news vans and wondered what was up. Not too long after I smelled smoke and saw crowds. By the time I got to 3rd, I saw what all the commotion was for—a building on the corner was on fire. There were flames coming out of the left side of the building, but it looked like it was mostly under control, so I assumed it had started long before I had gotten home and the fire fighters were close to putting it out. 

This morning I read that it went on well into the night and eventually engulfed the entire building. I swung by on my way to work to see what the damage was, and to my surprise, there were still fire crews out at 7:30 a.m. Hopefully no one was injured.

Day Three in Chicago

Sometimes when Gen and I find statues, things like this happen...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day Two in Chicago

I was told to see two things when I got to Chicago: the bean and Goose Island. When I arrived in Chicago, Gen informed me that Goose Island isn't so much an actual island as it is a brewery, so that handful of minutes I invested wondering if I'd have time to take a boat somewhere was time wasted. I did see several flocks of geese and was tempted to take a picture to text my friend and ask if I had, in fact, found Goose Island. I never made it to the brewery, but I did get to see the bean and made a new statue friend. 

 

 

 

 

 

Day One in Chicago

My first day in Chicago I got to see the lovely and talented Gen Burruss in action. She had a shoot for Mignonette Bridal, owned by Kpoene—not only an awesome wedding dress designer, but an awesome chick all around. I tagged along for the afternoon and took some pics of my own. You're going to want to stay tuned to Gen's blog though, because her images from this day are absolutely breathtaking.

 

 

 

 

 

Subterranean, Chicago, Ill.

I went to Chicago this weekend to visit a friend and go see the Jealous Sound play. While said friend and I stood in Subterranean watching one of the best Jealous Sound shows I've seen yet (yet as in, please don't want another ten years to keep making music so I can see you again soon), this guy stared at us from the top of the stage...

Newark Airport, 7:30 a.m. — The People On My Flight

I'm sitting at Newark Airport, terminal C, gate 81, playing Scrabble, waiting for my flight to Chicago. There's a man, pot-bellied, maybe in his late 20's, saying, "Awful," under his breath, repeatedly. Well, he's not really saying it, he's almost singing it. He's not talking to anyone about anything, he's not watching T.V., not reading a newspaper or magazine, just repeating, "Awful." 

I have developed a head cold and am a little nauseous from the generic Mucinex I took that morning, so I got up to get some water. I'll never know what was so awful for my fellow traveler. As I am waiting to be rung up, I notice that the store is selling lollipops with real scorpions—HotLix.   I'm a little horrified, a little curious, but mostly tired.  

My seat next to Mr. Awful had been taken while I was filling my backpack with toilet paper (make-shift tissues) and buying water, so I found a new location and started reading the book I brought with me—the book that was suggested to me to study character descriptions, so that I could go back and work on the characters in my book. A woman sat down next to me, Afrin in hand i.e. demonic nasal spray. Have you ever used this stuff? I've never done crack, but I have to assume the addictive powers are similar. My new gate neighbor is either suffering from a cold and is congested, or she's addicted to Afrin, but either way, I'm not sure she was aware that she was wearing an entire bottle of perfume. As someone used to say all the time, "Why have perfume if you can't wear the whole bottle?" Whatever the reason, I had to move. 

I now find myself next to a young woman yelling Spanish into what I can only assume is some sort of automated system. Her Spanish was broken up only by the words, "psychiatric clinic." I guess she got what she needed, because she's hung up her phone and is now testing every single ringer on it. She settled on crickets. 

It was right around this time that I look up and see someone I went to high school with and haven't seen since. We spoke to each other over a couple of rows, before I decided to stop being the loud one in the terminal and got up and sat next to her. She's working in PR now and is on her way to Chicago for some Irish organization's event. I let her know that I love Irish people, because, well, I do. She took down my email and said she'd add me to the local chapters happy hour list. Win. 

But alas, now it's boarding time. This flight I'm in boarding group six instead of last week's eight. I'm moving up in the Continental/United world. Trying to figure out where the line actually is, I asked a tall, curly-haired-almost-dread-locked man if he was on line.  He was. He's also not a fan of the new boarding process. This particular flight is especially lacking logic because they are boarding from the front of the plane. But, whatever. Curly is now telling me that they should be boarding from the back of the plane and window seats first, anything else is absolutely disruptive. But he quickly changed his mind.

"Well," he said, "I guess it makes sense. I saw the woman who starred in Groundhog Day, so it makes sense that they would let her board first. I mean, she wouldn't want all these people coming up to her, asking her for her address. I mean, autograph."

Um, what?

Finally settled in my seat, I figured my people watching time was over. But, no. I'm seated in an aisle seat, which is not my first choice, but I'll take it over middle. The middle seat is occupied by a man who is entirely too tall to be sitting in coach. I felt a little bad for him, all crammed in there like a sardine. As the plane begins to ascend, he begins to sporadically grab at his chest. I considered asking him if he wanted a Xanax, but that's weird. I also considered talking to him, but instead I'm writing it all down. With the lady in front of him trying to recline her seat, I'm pretty sure he's going to lose his shit. He's trying to hold up the seat in front of him frantically, with three fingers on his left hand. He's shaking, he's desperate. Now he's battling the chair with both hands, his right arm, and his legs. Eventually he loses and is now grabbing at his chest again. This must be what I look like to people when the plane hits turbulence. I become like a cat, trying to avoid a bath tub filled with water, clutching the armrests like if I hold them hard enough, I can somehow steady the plane. 

But right now, I am starving and I do not want an $8 snack pack. The rest of the flight is uneventful. We land at O'Hare and taxi for what seems like an eternity. It was definitely over ten minutes. Maybe we landed somewhere else and are driving to Chicago. Crickets sounded a few rows back. 

Welcome to Chicago—O'Hare.

My Greeting Card Project

I am taking a Greeting Card Marketing and Design class at Parsons. It's not quite what I expected...I pictured a bunch of twisted creative geniuses making cards reminiscent of Bald Guy Greetings (yes I keep referencing them because I freakin' love them) or the cards found on the Oatmeal. But, strangely, a lot of the graphic design students are from other countries—Mexico, Georgia, Spain—and do not write their own copy since English is not their first language. It's also less about pushing the envelope and more about pleasing the masses. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a mass pleaser. BUT I've been making some cards that have been cracking me up. And that's the most important thing, right? To be able to make yourself laugh? Well, I guess that may not make me any money, but I don't care. I love my cards. A lot.

The cover quote is from MTV's the State — Old Fashioned Guy, to be exact. Google it if you're not familiar, it's fantastic.

Cover photography by the lovely and talented Genevieve Burruss.  I prefer this as a horizontal card, but teacher says they are harder to merchandise. Like Yogurt said, "Merchandising, merchandising, merchandising!"
(Don't get that reference? Look it up. Again, hilarious.)

Yep. That's me. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Florida's Turnpike

I drove the three and a half hour stretch from Ft. Lauderdale to Orlando this week on Florida's Turnpike, after forgetting to turn off the toll road option on my GPS. Fifteen dollars and over 200 miles later, I delivered myself into a minor disaster. But that's a story for another day. 

For now, my question to you is, why is Florida so selfish? We have the New Jersey Turnpike, there's the New York State Thruway, the 405, the 805, and a million roads in between. This was the first time I encountered a road named possessively. I'm picturing Florida as a three year old child wrestling a toy away from a friend. "No! It's mine!"

Florida is flat. Florida is needy. I couldn't wait to get out of Florida—as evidenced by me changing my flight...twice.

Ft. Lauderdale, Fla.

Here's what I've reaffirmed for myself in Ft. Lauderdale...I really suck at using those hotel key cards. I don't know if I swipe too fast, too slow, or too spastic. Swipe...nothing. Swipe again...red light. I look at the room number to make sure I'm at the right room. Swipe...red light. Did I forget what room I'm in? Maybe this isn't really my room. Swipe...nothing. Now I consider going back to the lobby and telling them my key card doesn't work. Maybe it was somehow deactivated at the gym. Or maybe the magnet in my wallet erased all the data on the card. Ok, I'll go back to the lobby, but first, I try one more time. Swipe...ah, sweet green light. And all is well again.

2012 Rules!

I just wanted to take a moment to say that 2012 has been amazing so far, and it's only February! Like I said to my friends on New Year's Eve—you can't start the year on a tropical island and not have it been an awesome one. So what has 2012 offered me so far?

• Turks & Caicos kicked off the year—a bonfire and fireworks on the beach...what better way to say Happy New Year?
• I'm taking a Greeting Card Marketing & Design class, which I have wanted to take for awhile now, and it's at Parsons, so I feel fancy and artsy.
• This week brings me to Florida for a little work and a little sun.
• I'm headed to Chicago next weekend to see the lovely and talented Genevieve and a concert (I've always wanted to travel for a concert!) Which leads me to:
• The Jealous Sound is finally on tour again. Their new album is amazing and I cannot wait to see them twice next week.
• Reykjavik in early March, where we will (fingers crossed) see the Northern Lights.
• Seeing Dan Andriano's solo project in late March at the Bowery.
• The Fray in April—hooray for more live music!
• Just booked a week in Paris in May.

Je suis une fille heureuse. Time to start brushing up on my french!

Hooray for Camera Apps

World Trade Center Memorial

Even the smallest act of service, the simplest act of kindness, is a way to honor those we lost, a way to reclaim that spirit of unity that followed 9/11.
-President Barack Obama

I Like Your Perky Teets

Plenty of Fish was once described to me as “Plenty of Freaks,” and the longer I am on this site, I can certainly agree. This weekend I received an email that simply stated, “I like your perky teets.” I wonder what his expected response was. Perhaps:

• Thanks so much! Your balls don’t look half bad either!

• Want to see them?

• We should totally get together then!

My response to my friend was, “I have to get off of this website.” I planned to do that today but haven’t gotten around to it. I guess I could be doing it right now, but then I wouldn’t be able to share this next email with you, my five followers.

My wife and I see that you are a beautiful attractive woman... My wife and I are looking for a serious committed relationship that could lead to loving family and children one day... We are serious about this sweetie and I hope you understand. Hit us up when you have a chance babygirl.

I mean, really? REALLY? This is what’s left out there? Sigh. 

He Pooed in My Shoe

A mouse that is...not a bad date. Get your mind out of the gutter. 

It was 6 a.m. and I wasn't awake yet. Like every other morning, I got up, shut my alarm off and headed to the bathroom to shower. When I switched on the light, I thought I saw something scurry behind the toilet. But, like I said, I was half asleep and tend to imagine things. I quickly thought back to when I first moved in and a giant roach ran across my foot. I had refused to go home until my friend found and caught it. I was prepared to move if these things were going to sharing my space. I fear bugs, especially giant bugs. 

Once in college, I had just gone to Carvel to get some ice cream. Driving back home, a green spider appeared on my dashboard and was happily crawling along. I was at a red light when I saw it and the fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, so my first thought was to run like hell out of the car. I quickly realized that was probably a bad idea, but still not out of the question. All I had to defend myself against the green invader was my ice cream cup—which I promptly threw at my dashboard. As you could imagine, this was not effective, and I was now out of my tasty treat, ice cream all over the dashboard, spider lose in my car. I was never able to locate it. It may still be there.

Much like that spider, I never saw a giant roach again, so I saved myself a move (you think I'm kidding). Maybe until now. 

So I took a deep breath, hopped up on the sink so nothing would be able to run over my feet, and slammed the toilet lid down to scare whatever it was out of hiding. That it did, and that "it" was a mouse. He ran out from behind the garbage and under my bathroom door into the kitchen. He was a tiny little thing—a small brown field mouse. Or in this case, a small brown apartment mouse. Relieved it wasn't a giant bug that would try to crawl in my ear and murder me while I am sleeping, I proceeded with my morning. I jumped in the shower and started to wonder how I would handle my little houseguest. Perhaps he was already gone. 

I keep my shampoo and conditioner on the floor between the tub and the wall. This morning, when I went to grab my shampoo I noticed it wasn't alone. It was being kept company by little mouse droppings. Little guy must have been chilling in the bathroom all night. But again, I thought, maybe he is already gone. 

After the shower, I turned on every light in my apartment so Fievel would be aware that I am there and he probably shouldn't show his little face. I debated even calling the landlord because I didn't want anyone to hurt the little guy. Maybe Fievel and I could leave peaceably together. I have pretty much no food in my apartment, so I'm sure he couldn't be planning on extending his visit that much longer. 

So 40 minutes later with no mouse in sight, I became a little more sure that he was long gone. It was a fluke mouse. He just got lost last night looking for some cheese, or trying to escape the questioning cat that lives in the backyard. But when I went to get my shoes out of the closet, one single mouse dropping fell out. Ugh.

After listening to my friend tell me what one little mouse did to her house, I begrudgingly called my landlord. So all I can say is, Run little mouse. Run like the wind! And stay out of my shoes. 

The Great Wall and the Great Molesting

This ended up being an outtake from the book. If you scroll back to my trip to Beijing, you can contrast the amazing imagery with this story:

In 2009, I decided to visit my friend in Hong Kong. There’s nothing like a 16 hour flight to really make you feel how far you have actually traveled.

I went with my friend Phil and we stayed with my friend Brian. The first night, the first song I heard was Bon Jovi, and in that moment, I knew I had made the right choice in going there. The signs, the smells, the store windows with duck and octopus hanging in them—it was all so exotic.

The next morning we flew another four hours to Beijing. That first night we walked around Tiananmen Square, the Bird’s Nest, and I was introduced to both spicy food and Chinese toilets. After eating spicy food for the first time and washing it down with a ton of beer, you do not want to have your first meeting with an Asian bathroom. I opened the stall door to find there was not in fact a seat, like I had been accustomed to my entire life, but a hole in the floor with poreclain foot grips. This would be a feat of strength for my thighs. But, when in Rome...squat and pee in a hole in the floor.

The next morning we were off the Great Wall. I could not wrap my head around the fact that in a few hours I would be standing on the actual Great Wall of China. Once it came in to view, I was speechless. My friends were also speechless but that’s because in the 90 degree weather, their hangovers from doing shots with Canadians at the hostel all night were becoming unbearable. In retrospect, I think the dramamine I took for motion sickness probably saved me from the same fate.

We walked five miles of the Great Wall that day. Well, I don’t think walking is the right word. There are areas of the walls that felt like they were built perpendicular to the ground, and other areas that put my newly acquired rock wall scaling skills to use. It was simply amazing.

“How the hell are you not hungover?!” Phil blurted out as he sat in a tower, red-faced and rested while a Chinese souvenir saleswoman fanned him.
“We’re on the Great Fucking Wall of China!” I yelled.

We returned to Hong Kong the next day. The following days were filled with sight seeing, giant Buddhas, tiny Buddhas, and some wild monkeys. And, since it was Asia, before we left we just had to have some custom clothes made in Shenzhen. That ended up being less glamorous than imagined, probably because the whole experience began with us getting quarantined at the Hong Kong/China border and having to sign paperwork that was in Chinese, which, I was convinced, was some confession of some sort and would land me in Chinese prison never to be heard from again. Luckily, that didn’t happen. And somehow despite the fact that these were custom clothes and they took measurements, nothing fit.

Shenzhen did give me something that I love to this day—a tiny plastic zebra that runs in circles around a pole and lives in the most poorly translated box I had ever encountered. Shenzhen also gave me the worst massage experience of my life. Massages are cheap in Asia, so it seemed worthwhile to take advantage of that. A place called the Peninsula was recommended to us. When we pulled up out front, key letters of the sign had gone out, and it read, “Peni s la.” When we entered the Penis-la, as I took to calling it, we quickly realized no one there spoke one word of English.

Brian was trying to explain in hand gestures that we wanted massages. I sat in a chair and watched as he struggled through it.

“Bri, you realize your hand gestures aren’t at all matching anything you’re saying,” I said. “You look like a lunatic.”

Eventually, since it was afterall a massage parlor, they figured out what we were there for. They started to lead us up a set of stairs and then the boys were told to go one way and I was about to be led another way.

“Just so you know,” Brian said, “they will probably have you take a shower first. I don’t know why, that’s just what they do here. But then they will take you downstairs to meet up with us, and we will all be in the same room for the massage.”

Sounded easy enough to me. I followed along into a locker room, where they motioned for me to take off my clothes and they were holding a towel out to replace them. There were three women standing there watching me. Awkward. I deposited my clothes into a locker and wrapped the towel around myself. Then I was ushered into a shower stall. So far, just like Brian said. As I started to lather up, one of the ladies whipped the shower curtain open furiously shaking her head No. I froze for a second, confused, then tried to cover my nakedness with my two hands. She left as quickly as she had come in and took any comfort level I had along with her.

I once again wrapped the towel around me, now half wet, half covered in soap and walked out of the shower stall. The same lady then led me past a small pool into a steam room. Now, this was my first time in a steam room. I had no idea if it was supposed to be so...steamy. I could barely breathe. She came in and quickly deposited a glass of water next to me, which I didn’t if I should drink. Is China like Mexico? Am I supposed to avoid tap water? Was it tap water? I left the cup untouched, but was starting to wonder if I was supposed to let them know when I was done with the steam room, or if they were going to come get me. Just as I was reaching my limit and needed some air, she came in and ushered me into the next room.

There was a table in a small room that basically just fit the table. I figured Brian was wrong, and they weren’t going to take me to meet the boys, I was just having my massage here. Since my anxiety level was growing by the second, I was okay with that and just wanted this experience to end so that I could get back to my friends. And with that thought, she ripped the towel off of me and motioned for me to get onto the table. Once again naked and uncomfortable, I laid down, closed my eyes and made believe I was okay with this.

I heard her rustling around in the corner so I looked over to see her reaching into a bucket of what I can only assume was old, dirty Chinese water, she took out a sponge and started scrubbing me. The scrub got personal enough where I felt like I should have gotten a free meal. At one point she had her hand on my breast to steady it while she scrubbed my stomach. Massages were supposed to be relaxing. This was not relaxing, this was molestation. I guess I could have gotten up and left, but was unsure if this was a normal practice in China and it was merely my American ways that was completely uncomfortable with what was happening. Or perhaps it was having my vagina scrubbed by a stranger. Either.

When my scrub down ended, she held out a piece of paper and a pen. The small notecard had some Chinese writing on it, a happy face, a straight mouth face, and a sad face. Well, I was certainly sad. She kept motioning to me to circle one.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said pushing the card back at her. “You do it. You circle one.”

This went on for probably longer than it should have and I eventually just signed a happy face hoping that meant I could get the hell out of there. So back to the locker room we went and instead of being given my clothes I was given a spa top and pant outfit. But then they weren’t letting me leave the room. Money? Did they want a tip? Yes they did. As a sidebar, somewhere along the way, my brain that could once do calculus degraded to a point of struggling with basic math on most days. I’m always grateful there’s someone else around to score darts. So being anxious and flustered I just wasn’t able to figure out the exchange rate properly and think I tipped this woman entirely too much for the dirty water bath. But finally, she led me downstairs. At this point, I was shaking, scared, humiliated, you name it. Everything opposite of the good feelings that come with massages and spas—that was me.

When they led me back to my friends I found they sitting at a table in plush robes with beers and food in front of them looking like the two most relaxed people in the world.

“What the hell happened to you?” Brian asked.
“I’m drinking all of your beer, right now,” I said.

The Thai massage that followed was actually fantastic, but to this day, I still don’t know what the hell went on upstairs, and every woman Brian asked who had a massage in Shenzhen, never had an experience like that.

Only me.

My Little Dust Jacket

Since I'm sharing pieces of the book I've been working on, here's my favorite part—the artwork!

Excerpt from Part Two: It's Not a Tumor. Except, Yes, It Was.

Chapter Two: Day One of My New Life

The next day I went to practice despite they lack of doctor clearance. I was running around one of our standard practice runs around the local reservoir, but the workout was becoming nearly impossible. Every time I landed on my feet, a pain shot through my head like lightning. I had to stop and walk. Coach drove by and asked if I needed a ride. Feeling defeated, I accepted. I got back to the school, went through my book bag and took two more Tylenol.

The next run I had leave early—I had my M.R.I. appointment. I had no idea what to expect and that scared me, but with everyone’s assurance that this was only a precaution, I didn’t expect anything to be wrong. The technicians explained that I would be in a narrow tube and could not wear anything metal. The magnetic pull of the machine would rip any metal right off of me. There would be a drumming noise, but there was an intercom so they could talk to me at all times. Another technician came out beforehand to ask me a series of questions. 

“Do you wake up with the headaches?”
“Yes.”
“Do they go away if you take Tylenol?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s good.”

I became certain that nothing was wrong.

The M.R.I was difficult because, as it turns out, I am claustrophobic. I imagined that this is what being in a casket must feel like (if one were to actually know what that feels like at the time). The drumming was more of a jackhammering construction worker drilling deep into the street, right over my head, which the technician said I'd get used to.

“One day you’ll be able to sleep right through these.”
I thought he was crazy.
“Doesn’t matter,” I thought, “I’m never going to come for another one of these anyway.”

As it turns out, I can, now, sleep right through them. I also pass out immediately in movie theaters. But that’s a different story.

Once it was over, I wanted them to tell me I was okay, but legally they aren’t allowed to say anything until a doctor reviews the films. They’d be mailed to the doctor and then someone would be in touch with me—within a few days. Frustrated I still didn’t get the final OK that I was all right, we headed home. My focus shifted back to running and I just wanted to get home in time for that evening’s practice. As soon as we hit the driveway I ran in the house to get ready. I went into the bathroom to put my hair up and wash my face. The phone rang.

My dad answered and I was hoping he wouldn't be long, or this wouldn’t be Uncle Jimmy needing help, because I needed to leave. I was sixteen and still dependent on my dad for mobility. He said only a few words and then became silent.

"Well I'd like a meeting with you to discuss this," he said.

Something was wrong, that was easy enough to tell by his voice. But, it was me. I knew this was about me. Something was wrong with me. I felt my body start to tense and a flutter of anxiety settled in my chest. I tried to convince myself that the call probably wasn’t even about me and I was overreacting. Besides, the tests were all just a precaution, I just needed glasses. That’s what everyone had said.

The second he got off of the phone, I asked him what was wrong. There was no answer. He paced the living room with a red face and his hands on his hips, holding in a breath. He looked like if he let that breath go, the entire world would fall apart. The two minutes that it took him to tell me felt like an hour. It could have even been thirty seconds, or ten. It was the longest pause I had ever experienced. He knew he had to tell me. He knew he had to break my heart only a few moments after his had been ripped out. I asked again.
“Oh God, give me a minute, it’s just a shock,” he said, still seeming like he hadn’t exhaled.“What?" I pleaded.“They found a tumor.”

Numbness, then blackness; or maybe it was the other way around. Those four words hit me like a truck. I suddenly felt the floor beneath me. I was on the floor, overwhelmed, trying to catch my breath and fruitlessly trying to wipe my cheeks dry with tear soaked hands. At first I didn’t know if I was really crying. For a few seconds it felt fake. Like, under the circumstances, I had to cry. Then my vision blurred and I could feel the tears roll down my face—but I couldn’t feel my legs.

“I’m going to die,” was all that ran through my head. I was too young. I wasn't ready. Not like this. Four days until school. Running. Future. The thoughts crashed together and filled up my mind. I didn't know what to do first. My dad went downstairs and left me alone.

High school had forced me into certain habits and ways of thinking, like any other adolescent. At the time, this was what life was and only looking back do you realize how simple life was then.  I had become very good at balancing time between classes, running and my job at the ice cream shop. Aside from the dysfunctional home life, I was a teenager and life could be very superficial. I had a boyfriend, Dominic, and felt a large part of my life revolved around that relationship. But that life, that version of my life, had just ended.

The first thing I did to try to hold onto the life I had until ten minutes ago, was to call Dominic. What I hadn’t anticipated was that I wouldn’t be able to speak. I forced out a “Hello,” but couldn’t find much else beyond the tears. He asked me if I wanted him to come over and I managed to tell him I did.

I had to call to tell coach Mizzone. I still wanted to go to pratice that night and tried to think of a way to make that happen. I definitely didn’t want to go downstairs and join in whatever was going on down there. But the words left my mouth before I could even try to stop them.

“I can’t make it to practice tonight,” I said.
“Why?” he asked. “What did you find out?” I had to say it for the first time.
“I have a brain tumor.”
“Did they tell you anything else?”
“No,” I said, crying again.
“Call me back when you find out anything at all.”
“Yeah.”

The panic slowly but continuously began to grow inside of me. Maybe I could just focus on breathing. Just breathe. I went down stairs in a daze. I was told to sit down and relax, but I wanted to scream. I stumbled to the kitchen where I found my father telling my grandmother.
“Don't tell me that. Don't say that,” as she started to cry. “No, no, no,” my grandmother said over and over as if she could somehow with her words refuse to let it happen.

My cousin stood leaning against the counter next to the sink, speechless. I stood observing for a moment before they realized I was there. Seeing me, they tried to gather themselves. They straightened out their shirts, wiped their faces with their hands, like they could magically erase the redness of their eyes and the look on their faces. I imagined myself reading their minds, “Be strong for her, we’ll have time to be upset later.” I was floating through all of it. No matter how hard I tried, I could not be a part of the same reality.

The room felt uncomfortable and suffocatingly small, so I went outside, just in time to see Dom pulling into the driveway with his dad. He got out of the car and I collapsed into his arms.

“What is it, baby?” he asked softly.


He put his arms around me. As he hugged me, I cried into his shoulder, “I have a brain tumor.”

I clung to him, like he was a safety raft. If I could just hold him long enough this would end. We could just freeze this moment and I could just stay there, inside his arms.

But time would have none of that. The rest of the day blends together like a bad dream. My grandmother stood outside assuring me that I was too beautiful for anything to happen to me. It was a ridiculous notion, that almost made me angry because I wanted some solid reassurance that I was going to be okay, but I smiled.

My mother arrived amidst the confusion with her live-in boyfriend, later to be her second husband, Mike. I hugged her, as she cried in my grandmother’s living room. I remember her face, the helpless face of a mother who could do nothing to help her child. I found myself assuring her that it would be okay. It was hard to say, because I didn't believe it myself. Right then, I thought I was dying, so I might as well comfort everyone else. Everyone had an unsettling, calm demeanor, except my mother who cries hysterically in movies theaters, so there was no relaxing her now.

The tears had nearly sealed my eyes shut and my nose was shut down, adding an unneeded layer of discomfort on top of everything else. There wasn’t enough space in my head to think and my house seemed to be growing small enough to wear, like I had eaten the wrong mushroom and was growing at an alarming rate. I had to get out. Maybe I could run. Maybe I could just out run this. Leave it at the house, and I could run away and have it still be there, without me. There was this thing in my head trying to kill me and there was nothing I could do. There was nothing anyone could do. It wasn’t an arm or a leg that you could stare at and disassociate from—worst case, we cut off the appendage that is trying to kill me. No, it was my head. I definitely couldn’t cut off my head. The best I could do was to get out and get some fresh air. So Dominic and I went out for a walk.

We went to the church, where I had recently been confirmed as a Catholic in honor of my grandfather, but it was closed. A sign perhaps? Not sure where we were headed next, I subconsciously walked towards my friend Erica’s house, a path I hadn’t actually walked in years. She lived three streets above mine, but early on in our childhood we discovered a set of stairs that cut through the first street. They were narrow, cement stairs with a wooden fence and rusted railing on the right side and two houses on the left. I passed the first house and the big round pool in its backyard, its cover filled with water around the supporting bulge in the middle. As long as I could remember, I have never seen that pool open. It always had that same green cover with leaves, snow, and water taking their turns resting there with each season. We passed the second house that a friend once described to me as “periwinkle” and I had laughed at the strange new word.

Although I had been this way, maybe a thousand times, this time it was different. Everything I did that day was different; it may be the last time I was ever going to do them. It became one of the longest walks I ever took. Time slowed down, sped up and froze all at the same time. Questions began to flood my mind and I poured them out to my companion, who had not yet let out any sign that he, too, was terrified. He let me talk and held my hand.

“Can I not picture myself in the future because I’m not meant to be there? Is the future clear for you? Like, when you see yourself in twenty years, do you really see yourself or is it just some hazy illusion of what might be? Maybe I see it like that because it’s not really there. Why is this happening to me? Why now? Why this? God, am I going to die? I don’t want to die. I’m not ready.”

I searched for some place to ground my mind, and for a while I found it in reviewing the facts. I repeated what I knew to myself; I was number one on the cross country team, I was academically in the top ten of my class and I was dating one of the “popular” boys. All that was only one week away...but now it seemed like an unattainable time and place; myself an hour ago was impossible. And then I was lost again.

When we reached Erica’s house her father came to the door.

“Hey, stranger,” he said.
“Erica around?” I asked.
“Nope. How you doing?”
“Good, good. Can you just tell her I stopped by?”
“Of course.”

I had grown up splitting my time between her house and my own. Her father was my dad away from home. The images of my father holding in his pain flooded my head. I couldn’t do that to her father too; so I mustered up the energy I had and made believe I was fine. I left without saying a word about it; to come back to my house, where it was waiting for me.

When I got home I was still trying to make sense of some of it. All I could figure was that I was going to die. I have no recollection of where the next few hours of my life went. At some point, I stood with my father outside, in front of our house. We leaned against the old white Chevrolet we used to have before Tina totalled it. I stared at the two maples lining my yard. It was dusk and the air was growing cooler, another reminder of the impending school year...
...The hours eventually passed. Every now and then I would drift into an unsettled sleep. I had one vivid dream that night—it was my funeral. There were white bouquets spread all around the room. All of my friends were there and wearing black, a color none of them would ever wear, having grown up in the fluorescent eighties. I saw my father’s pale face. He was in shock.

“My baby. My baby,” he said, hunched over in a chair in the first row.
“Don’t cry Dad. I’m okay. Look Dad, I’m right here. I’m fine.”

But he wouldn’t acknowledge me. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t listen to me. He was staring directly in front of him, right through me, so I turned around to meet his gaze. There was a casket. I inched up to it, afraid of what I would find inside. When I peered in over the edge, I saw my body and I saw my chalk white face clearly, and then I understood.

Excerpt from Part One: The Beginning

Chapter One: All Because Two People Fell in Love, or at Least Had Sex

My parents met in a bar, I’m told, which seems fitting given the huge role alcohol has played in my life. My father was a musician, playing local bars for money. The cover tunes paid the bills, but beneath all of that he was a very talented singer/songwriter. If you look hard enough, you can still find his record floating around out there—Bob Minchin, Organized. He played the organ.

Dad used to bring me with him to set up his equipment at the Chandelier in Bayonne, New Jersey. I learned at a young age how to be really good at winding and packing up wires. When I was in college working as a photographer’s assistant, one photographer commented on how, out of all the assistants he’d had, I was the best at winding and packing up cords and wires.

When I was little, “knee high to a grasshopper,” as my grandmother would say, there was a made-for-TV movie out called “The Electric Grandmother.” My father changed the words to a song from its soundtrack and sang it to me all the time.

“Jennifer, Jennifer, eyes are so blue. Jennifer, Jennifer, Daddy loves you.”

I can still hear the melody. The day I realized he had taken it from the movie, I felt a little gypped, but still always appreciated being sung to sleep. My dad introduced me to music and I’ve loved it for as long as I can remember. He got me my first microphone, amplifier, guitar, keyboard, record player, record, cassette, compact disc player, and first CD. He gave me my first passion. But even before any of those things, Grandma says I used to stand in my playpen outside her window singing into a stick. Which begs several questions, one of which being where did I get a stick if I was in a playpen?

My mother was…well, probably not old enough to be in a bar when she met my father. I don’t know really anything about her at the time, except she had hair that went down to her butt.

“Remember Ma,” my dad would say, “how Trishe’s hair used to go down to her butt?”
“Oh my stars and garters,” she’d say. “It was long.”

My dad used to refer to her as “Trishe the fish on a dish.” It made no sense, but for some reason it always made her angry. He’d greet her with it sometimes when she picked me up on Friday nights.

They got married and did not live happily ever after. I’ve never seen a wedding picture of them and I definitely don’t remember them being together. I have seen her wedding dress, though. I like old things—antiques, used books, old towns—things with history. I am that daughter that would want to wear her mother’s wedding dress because it has a story. But, that dress is long gone. Knowing my parents as they are today, it seems like a very strange match. But they made me, so, there’s that.

I was sixteen when my mother remarried the first time. She needed a copy of the divorce papers as part of the marriage paperwork, and for some reason she didn’t have a copy. She was a successful sales person, so to this day, since I pair dress suits with being organized, it seems strange to me she hadn’t saved a copy somewhere. My father had, which is also strange, because he can’t remember where he puts anything. Dad gave me the documents to give to her. Curious, since I knew very little about my parents relationship, I read through them.

Lo and behold, they were married in June of 1979. I was born August 11, 1979. Oops. My dad said there had been a delay from getting things settled from his first marriage. I stand by “Oops.” This could very well explain why, when I was a small child, my mother would tell me things like, “Jennifer, if you ever get yourself ‘into trouble’ I will help you take care of it.” At six or seven, I didn't know what that meant. I just knew that my mother made me watch Lifetime movies I didn’t understand and she cried to them. She cried like someone had just told her that her puppy died.

Fast forward to a Thanksgiving visit to mother in Florida when I was 24. From across the breakfast bar she said, “Jennifer, I am so proud of you, for never getting yourself into trouble.” It all clicked. Who knew the proverbial bar was so low? I think the only solid piece of advice I ever got from her was to take a business class in college because once I entered “the real world” I would need it. Well, I never took a business class, but I also never got knocked up. Let’s call it a wash.

So my parents split and my father got main custody. My dad wrote a song that I have always assumed was about my mother, since he said she broke his heart. Mom used to play it for me on her then super high tech stereo system and sometimes I would cry because I wanted Mom and Dad to be a family. A few times, she even caught me crying and threatened to never let me listen to it again. But I loved it, so I made sure to cry only when she wasn’t in the room. I’ve figured it out in all different keys on the piano because I can remember the melody, but I’ve forgotten most of the words. “What am I gonna do without you baby?” I still get teary eyed thinking about it, but don’t tell my mother.

People always say that in New Jersey the courts favor the mother when it comes to divorce and custody, which leads to me think she willingly gave me up. That’s what my step-mother always told me. Maybe she never wanted me. Maybe she was just too young. She had me when she was 21, and at 31 I still can’t say I’m responsible enough to raise a child—but if the situation arose, I would never let her go.

My mother lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Beaver Brook Gardens and had turned the dining room into a bedroom for me. There were hanging plants spanning the front window, which was covered in a sheer curtain. In the summer, I loved the way the air conditioner would blow the curtains up into the air. I also loved the smell of her air conditioner.

She had a giant ceramic mouse that, for many years, was bigger than me. She had a walk-in closet that always fascinated me. Mom was a mystery, so I felt that her closet held clues to who she was. I would try on her shoes, look through her clothes, and smell the plastic that shrouded her dry-cleaned suits. One year I discovered that the closet was also where she would hide my Christmas presents. I walked in the closet and was greeted by a giant box of gifts. A purple pen with a green alien head on top was peeking over the top of the box. I was elated. Mom, not so much.

My bedroom had a bed with two storage drawers underneath, a dresser, and a closet jam-packed of God knows what. For a long time when I was small I liked to clean out the drawers under my bed and play in them. They were always filled with Barbie dolls. I never liked Barbie, but my great-grandmother seemed to buy me one for every occassion. I would sit in my drawer, Barbi’s strewn about the floor, and I would make believe I worked in a bank. Other little girls were playing dress up or playing with their imaginary friends—I imagined myself behind the counter of a bank making endless deposits and withdrawals for my imaginary customers.

I also had a three-foot-tall E.T. piggy bank at Mom’s apartment. My mother tells me that when she took me to see the movie, I cried and cried and cried at the end, yelling, “I don’t want E.T. to go home!” She bought me a movie poster and eventually the piggy bank. Problem was, at night the life-size E.T. scared the bejesus out of me and I could never sleep with it in my bedroom. So Mom would take it and put it in the living room so I could sleep peacefully. One weekend, for whatever reason, she lugged the changed-filled creature out to the front porch. By morning, it was gone. I’m not really sure what she thought would happen putting what must have been over $200 in change outside overnight, but E.T. was once again gone from my life, and this was no doubt followed by a weekend full of tears.

I now have a three foot tall E.T. stuffed animal that guards my car. I was given it years ago from a friend and my backseat seemed like a good place to keep him. He’s buckled in—safety first. E.T. is my co-pilot.

Excerpt from Part Three: Everything After

Chapter Two: There Are Things I Don't Remember

I don’t know if I have a terrible memory or have just gotten good at repressing things, creating a black hole that just eventually sucked most things in. My grandmother, on the other hand, constantly amazes me with her memory. She used to always tell me stories about things that happened before I was born, when I was “up in Heaven sucking on oranges.” As she gets older, her short-term memory continues to deteriorate, but the woman can still whip out an incredibly detailed story from when she was seven. 

In college, an essay assignment inspired me to get some of these stories down, so I asked her to tell me a story. She sat across from me at her kitchen table, one hand holding a can of Budweiser, the other pulling at her lip, searching her eighty-three years for something interesting to say. She was wearing her white button-up Coca-Cola shirt with thin red vertical stripes that my uncle must have given her years ago, but she still wore all the time. 

“My wedding day,” she said. “You couldn’t make story out of it though. Dad’s brother stood on our porch roof when I was coming in the house, it was August 16th, a hot, sweaty day, and he threw tapioca on me. Tap-i-o-ca! It all went down my dress, ‘cuz I had a queen-skin collar and it all went down my dress, all stuck in my...akk. What a mess I had. But you couldn’t make a story out of that. I was mad,” she says as her face flashes me a stern look to prove to me that it was not, in fact, a funny event. But I was still wondering what a queen-skin collar was.

After a slight pause she continues, “But he was studying to be a priest so I couldn’t holler at him. Hmm...let me see. I know a lot of funny stories about Grandpa that I didn’t think were funny at the time. We went on vacation, this is nothing to write about, we went on vacation, Kathy was only a little baby, a little one.  

“Well, she could have been in a stroller. So we’re walking the boardwalk and Grandpa decided he’s going in for a beer. I had to wait on the boardwalk. He went in and started talking to somebody and forgot I was out on the boardwalk. But me being a damn fool, I sit there and waited a couple hours, just standing there in the hot sun, getting madder and madder, and when he came out, well you couldn’t holler at Grandpa ‘cuz he got mad at you. I said, ‘I’m so mad.’ He said, ‘Well if you’re mad, we’re going home.’ I didn’t want to go home. I could’ve killed him. A couple of hours I stood there waiting, started talking to a man with a beer and forgot I was standing there outside with the baby.

“That’s not funny.  That’s not a funny story. Needless to say, we didn’t go home. I didn’t get a beer, though, either. But in them days, in them days, girls couldn’t go in the taverns like they do today.” After a pause she adds, “But it was on the boardwalk,” in a tone that made it clear she thought that particular social standard was on the ridiculous side.

“Now how many years ago was that? Kathy was only knee high to a grasshopper...I suppose you couldn’t write about that either.”

She always has a smile on her face when she tells a story, and you can see her drift off, back to whatever time it is she is talking about. Right then she was in a world sixty years ago when her husband of over fifty years was still alive. 

“We had an old car going down to Seaside,” she continued, “we had this old car, this old black car, it was always running out of water because of the radiator. The boys and Grandpa had to go to the bathroom, so they peed in the derby. When he ran out of water, steam was all coming out of the radiator, he takes the derby full of pee and puts it in the radiator. He gets back on the highway and starts down the road again. Terrible. He was a nut really”...she trails off, still staring off into space and softly whispers, “really.” 

I didn’t know what a derby was either.