Social Reasons

Spring has replaced fall as my favorite season since moving to New York. My neighborhood is resplendent with blooming dogwoods, pink and white, tulip bulbs in a rainbow of colors and the more subtle hues of wine-colored leaves against red brick homes and iron railings.

Really, it’s the only time this place looks good. By the time summer arrives I’m too hot to appreciate anything. No, this is the best time. Hundreds of people in Prospect Park, sauntering through the farmers' market, buying newly dead fish, organic meats, green herbs and fresh loaves of bread and stuffing them in the now-popular canvas “green bag.” A group of younglings plays Ultimate frisbee on the green, mothers follow toddlers around on the grass, birds set up a discordant chorus in the trees, squirrels beg and lovers sit on the bench and neck.

I love this time of year especially because the days are long, but one isn’t longing for the sun to go down to dispel the heat. I love that when I leave for an 8pm show, it’s still light out. I did that last night. My friend Brenda (who, oddly, I discovered was in my high school home room in Wisconsin and we have absolutely no memory of one another) choreographed and performed in a dance piece on 14th street.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen real live dancers on stage. It may have been Brenda’s last show, in fact. It was fun to watch how her style has matured. While many of the works expressed clear stories of individual love, rage or outrage, Brenda’s was a fluid ensemble piece, expressing nuances of the music and the dancer’s bodies.

And I think, that’s just it, isn’t it? Almost everyone I know in town is entertaining some sort of major career crisis, thinking of getting out of the arts, wondering if the sacrifice is worth it, asking themselves, “why do I do this?” And coming up with a variety of answers.

In my second year at DePaul, my teacher had all her students in her office for a little chat. She asked each of us to answer this very question: “Why do I sing?” I’d actually been giving that some hard thought already. When it came my turn I hesitated. “I think…I think I do it for social reasons,” I said.

I could tell my answer displeased her. Something crossed over her face which was dark and uninterpretable. I think she wanted – or expected- something more insightful from me. Perhaps the difficulty lies in the choice of words. I might have elaborated.

Last night in one of the dance pieces, (which I think was about the Salem witch trials, but I'm not entirely sure) there was a chair. A metal folding chair, which always sends chills up my spine when I see on stage. Too many accidents waiting to happen.

Well, I needn’t have worried. First of all, the smart dancers always used the edge of the chair, keeping it from folding on itself. But also – and this is the Thing – there were always a dancer or two placed cleverly at the back edge of the chair, doing their choreography while subtly holding on to it.

This is what I mean by “social reasons.” It’s the little things you do, when performing, to take care of one another. The clear knowledge that we fly or sink together, all one interdependent unit which can easily break down without the cooperation of even one member. Or one body part of one member.

I remember one show I did where a guy in the cast was experiencing a major medical mental meltdown. He wasn’t sure he could go on stage. I promised him I would stay behind the set in a certain place when I could, and when his blocking allowed him to, he would come back and hold his hand out, just enough so I could grasp it. He clung to my hands like a drowning man. He got through the night.

There’s the way theater people move around one another in cramped quarters backstage. There’s an internal dance behind every production, moving bodies out of the way of moving sets and curtains and rigging and one another exiting and entering, an automatic turning aside of bodies, a light step for quiet, words whispered, or said without saying. Polite. Professional. Caring.

And quite frankly, it annoys me that other people don’t move with the same swiftness and dexterity on the sidewalk in the city, in the home or in the restaurant or in the store.

I was once in an opera where I was in a dozen consecutive scenes, each with a different, late 19th century costume. They were gorgeous. But the costumer felt the stage in that theater was too close to the audience to allow for anything unauthentic in the dresses, like oh, zippers or Velcro instead of fifty teensy buttons up the back.

The first dress rehearsal was a complete disaster. The costumer’s assistant had no idea what she was doing. The domino effect was of epic proportions – there was absolutely no room in the music for more than 30 seconds of changing time. I didn’t come on stage, the lights came up, my musical cue came up, no one sang, so no one sang after that, the conductor kept waving her arms in desperation, trying to coordinate the people left on stage, her job made more impossible by 20th Century scoring. Everyone just had to stop.

What it came down to? The entire show had absolute reliance on the costumer’s assistant.

Performing creates an intense sense of belonging, one which helps me understand completely why when people serve together in the military, all they want to do is sit around and share war stories. Because it recalls that sense of being an important part of a unit.

Of course your life isn’t technically on the line when you’re performing – usually, though of course there are exceptions – but try convincing your brain of that! We are all hard-wired to respond intensely to being observed, to peer pressure, to a tribal mentality of cooperation and trust. Try purposely screwing up in front of an audience of 600 – I can’t physically make myself do it. Could you?

And that’s what I think I miss about performing, as I haven’t been doing much of it at all lately. It’s “social reasons.” I’ve discovered into my thirties that I’m not really very interested in performing alone – I’m an ensemble player, be that in a band, a choir, an opera or a musical. And of course the question which follows is: Can one find that in another line of work which demands less sacrifice?

Sure, it’s possible. I think what’s important is recognizing what it is about what you do which enriches you and feeds your will to live. I like to be a functioning part of a unit, with something to contribute which is unique. My situation is, of course, complicated by the need for regular breaks and ten hours of sleep, a heart condition and such, but surely a choice is there if I should decide to grab it.

I went to Fibromyalgia support meeting last week (perhaps a mistake, as, in just being around all of them my pain levels spiked…) and I told them I was a massage therapist. There was a puzzled pause. “Wait – which do you have, fibro or CFIDs? “ one asked. I told them for what it was worth, I’d been diagnosed with both. There was a collective gasp. “And you do this kind of work????”

Although I argue with the characterization of people with these diseases being incapable of physical labor, and allow for differences in individuals, I’d still do well to perform a reality check and think that both my performing and massage days may be numbered. I am considered extraordinarily functional for someone in my place physically, and I thank many a wonderful hands-on therapist for that, but that work does not come free, and the budget for it would come much more easily on a better salary.

My friends and acquaintances are leaving show business in droves….leaving non-profits for capitalist ventures, leaving directing to have babies, leaving electrician work to go back to school, leaving stage managing to make it in real estate, to explore another life. Leaving for L.A. where there’s the possibility of residuals in film and television. Leaving for careers which are not as hard on their bodies. I see many making successful and rewarding transitions into worlds more stable and less competitive than the performing arts.

Who will take their place?

Well, more 22 year olds come every year.

2002

It's been exactly six years since I left my first sublet in NYC, figuring I was going back to Chicago for good. Or until I had the next better idea.

I had just had my first date with Colin. Though i didn't know it, I was soon to embark on my first real regional theater gig. I was driving the same car I have now. I was taking five prescription medications a day.

Some of you traveled with me via the old "email" method of blogging (I didn't really know that's what it was and still kinda prefer it that way, but alas we must all evolve...) and I thank you from the bottom of my gut for being someones to laugh with me at the ridiculousness of it all.

Yesterday I got word that my new MacBook Pro, which I got for Christmas from my Dad, needs to go bye-bye, to the rehab spa for computers. "I'm actually surprised it boots up at all," said the mac genius who was helping me. "I'd advise you to back everything up as soon as you can, and get it back in for repairs." He wrote down a number for me and sent me on my way.

I picture my computer forgetting everything at the spa - maybe it's in Arizona, under a hot, dry sun - and among those things are all those tasty memories of my first days in NYC. I backed everything up as best I can today. And came across those old Word Perfect files which barely even function on my new operating system.

I decided it's time to start the process I've been meaning to get to - slowly bringing all those stories to a new birth in the land of Blog.

I don't know if those signed up with Feedblitz will necessarily get a new feed every time I make a new entry dated way back to 2002. If so, I hope it's not too annoying. They'll probably come in small clumps.

If you want to look for them, they'll be appearing here. Look for them by date on the right hand side of the blogger page. Starting with "2002."

Please let me know if you know something I don't to make the whole process funner and easier.

And thanks for reading.

Niki

The sitch on Sackett today

Well, a little update on the housing sitch...

To sum up, I pretty much lost my sense of humor about the boiler when I got the the front door today, hands full of laundry, and could not get out.

I don't know what the rest of you talked about with your parents when you were young, but I grew up with dinnertime stories about people who'd burned up in fires, people who'd passed out and died from carbon Monoxide poison, some who maybe never knew, some maimed and killed for no good reason. My good old dad described the bodies in detail, dead and alive, blisters over 90% of their bodies, searing on the insides of lungs, the children, the parents desperate to save them and the idiotic actions responsible for their deaths.

With a father who's a fire investigator, such talk is to be expected. And it sewed the seeds of my extreme malcontent today.

The boiler did its thing two more times over the next 24 hours last week, so the Tuesday was pretty much a re-run of Monday, with oily smoke and opening of windows and shivering in the resultant cold, sadly without the handsome fire fighters but happily without the pets in immediate danger, because by then Kristina had the sense to take the precautionary step of taking her dog to work with her and Jessica was home with hers.

Then there was the front door.. Oh, we've been telling the Management company about it for years - the knob falls off, sometimes you can't get in, sometimes it's like the Hotel California and you can't get out....and it's not like a house, where there might be other safe ways to exit the front of the building. It's the door or nothin', baby, unless you can get to the fire escape in the back.

Last week, certainly because it was 25 degrees out, we were locked out. The story goes that while the dubiously skilled fix-it guy was waiting outside in the cold for the (potentially actually skilled) boiler guy, he understandably got bored and tried to fix the door. And made it worse.

So for several days, we lived with it taped open, and watched the news for stories of killers in masks who come into unlocked buildings and half hoped the next person in would accidentally mess up the tape, which would increase the sense of security if we were on the inside, but eliminate our ability to get in if we were on the outside of the building.

Of course someone did eventually mess up the tape system, and I called my landlord from the stoop one day last week, shivering in the cold and unable to make the lock work.

"Buzz 1R," his response. "She's home and been letting people in." Yeah. That's a good permanent solution. Of course the lady in 1R, though extraordinarily nice, doesn't speak a lick of English. Jessica, Kristina and I set up a little phone tree and called each other to make sure someone was here who can let the others in before leaving to go anywhere.

Meanwhile, I programmed the numbers of two 24 hour locksmiths in my phone, just in case.

Why didn't I call?

THAT is exactly the question. At the heart of this very question, I believe, is the brilliant psychology that our landlord, Orazzio, has played upon us all. Whether he has strategized it, or come by it by accident or out of desperation, I don't know, but somehow all of us have clearly been played. Somehow no one in this building, to my knowledge, is currently seeking legal action against Peto Management.

How is that possible? After years of monthly letters stating the exact problems and no permanent fixes, how is it we are all still participants in this group notion that somehow, someday in the future, the water damage will be fixed, the buzzer will work, the doorknobs will stop falling off, the mailboxes will work, the stoop will be repaired, the windows will go up and down like they're supposed to (and we'll be able to see through them), we'll have safe heat, access to the back yard for the cable guy, and enough hot water for showers?

Have we all drunk the Cool Aid?

I think the landlord's secret is in giving us just enough action to keep our ears off the phones and feet out of the courtroom. He has an amazing intuition as to my tipping point. My feet will be on the pavement when he'll finally authorize a fix - at least a temporary one.

Or, like two weeks ago, he sent the dubiously skilled fix-it guy to my door after I'd called, in order to explain why things were not getting fixed. (Never mind this guy spent an hour talking to me when he could have been fixing something.) There aren't enough employees to manage the eight buildings he owns (because they haven't been paid and then they quit, even the illegal immigrants). People have fallen behind paying rent and there aren't enough funds. Orazzio owes the places where they get supplies and therefore they can't get new anything. On and on and on.

Soon it becomes a counseling session in which I deliver career advice to the guy who's telling me he can't pay his rent (to Orazzio) because he's not getting paid regularly (by Orazzio) and who dreams, positively dreams of becoming a sanitation worker for the City of New York. There's a wait list, he says, but he knows some guys who know some guys who're soon gonna retire early, so he maybe has an "in."

And I'm thinking, doesn't it sound like Peto Management needs to sell a building? Maybe I'm nuts. I know being a landlord is tough. Managing a rent-stabilized building has to be tougher.

But look, he could have saved himself that expensive ticket from the city by putting lids on the garbage cans years ago! What a concept! He could have saved himself that expensive repair to our bathroom if we could have reached him when it started to drip. (As usual, his answering machine was full, apparently with other people calling with complaints and employees and supply houses looking for money, so nobody came for days and by that time the ceiling had caved in.)

Yet somehow he manages to engage our sense of pity, our sense of well, that's good enough, our sense of hope. Through the voices of his pitiful employees, who appear sometimes and invoke our sense of sympathy that they are not the cause of the problem, only victims of it, as we are, we get stuck in a downward spiral of no-I-don't-have-time-to-deal-with-this and -well-it's -really-not-that-bad and people-in-third-world-countries-have-it-worse-so-what-am-I-
complaining-about mentality.

We take a little action, like calling the city, and someone comes out and inspects, or not, and then nothing happens (are they getting paid off?) So we're quiet.

But I think the law is on our side. Today I called the Department of Buildings and actually talked to real person - an inspector who says he's coming out tomorrow to look at the boiler.

Good luck getting in, I tell him, with the buzzers not working and- isn't it ironic- he needs to call the landlord to get access to the thing.

More adventures in rent-stabilized living

Sirens are always blaring in Brooklyn. I've learned, to my amazement, to sleep through them, or at least not remember them when I wake. Sometimes they're even accompanied with the low hum of large truck engines in the street which shake the floor and mirror and the windows. And I ignore them, because it's just another neighbor who had a heat attack.

This morning was no different. Until I heard Colin, next to me: "Do you smell smoke?"

Why yes, I did. I noticed the acrid smell of burning oil greeting my one unstuffed nostril in the late morning air. And - coincidentally? Three fire trucks parked outside the building, lights flashing. And the sound of large boots coming up the stairs.

Clothes first, then bathroom. I pulled a shirt over my head while on the toilet, and listening to the boots get closer - surely fire fighters coming to evacuate me and all the neighbors - made a mental list of the things I should insist on grabbing before being cast onto the cold, wet street for hours.

Coat, cell phone, a bottle of water. Wallet. Last, shoes. The trucks were a good sign, I theorized, that little would be destroyed in a blaze. Fire is something we often consider as a distinct possibility in our building. There are a lot of people living in close proximity, in an old building, not to mention adjoining buildings, and any one of us could make a mistake. That's why we have insurance.

We skip the whole feel the door thing and open it to several voices echoing in the hallway. Three firefighters, donning thick jackets with glow-in-the dark yellow stripes and wielding axes, are gathering information as best they can from our disabled neighbor across the hall. There is a loud beeping noise coming from downstairs.

One man steps forward, carrying in his right hand a small object that looks like a weapon from Start Trek. As he comes through our doorway, it's making alarming squacking noises. A CO2 detector.

Now, lest you should judge us, I want to say right here that we do keep a CO2 detector like any good citizens. But last week it started babbling at us that the batteries were dead. And I'm on this new kick to replace all batteries in the house with rechargeable ones, right? And do you think they carry them at the hardware store down the street? Nope. So it went "on the list" And the CO2 detector, unused for several years, has sat open, waiting for batteries, on the kitchen table, since exactly last Tuesday.

And here the writer began to smell smoke again. At first she was sure it was just sensory recall from writing the story of this morning, but...no...open the hallway door. CHUCK full of smoke again.

So if I should die and my laptop be recovered, let this be a lesson to all - when there's smoke, leave the building.

Where was I? Star trek device, squacking, beeping...strapping, dripping men with big boots tromping into the bedroom. Not such a bad thing, that part.

"Set phasers to stun!" he said as he crossed the threshold. No, he didn't.

"It's registering at 90 parts per million," states the strapping, dripping man authoritatively. He never takes his eyes off the machine. "We turned off the boiler. You should be OK if you air out." He brings the Star Trek device into the kitchen. "Open the windows," he commands. We do it.

Now our windows aren't all graceful to get at. I wasn't sure what happened until later when Colin, who witnessed from behind, described it, but I remember turning on the big white fan, leaning over the bed toward a window and disturbing the big green ball which lives rather precariously, perched between the bed and the wall. The big green ball, in turn, disturbed the big white fan, which went face down on the floor and stated making a sound like, "Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!"

Thinking one of the blades was broken, I turned it off, quick-like. Then I started thinking about Jessica's dogs, upstairs. And then about Kristina's dog, downstairs. I don't wait or the blades to stop moving.

"What was in the fan?" I ask Colin, who has gone to investigate.

"You don't wanna know," he says.

We have recently begun a campaign of Shock and Awe in an attempt to control the mouse population recently on the rise, quite possibly because there are several walls open in several apartments due to leaks which are as yet still leaking into walls which are as yet cracked and broken open.

I asked Colin to bring home traps one night last week, and I meant snap traps. He brought glue traps.

"This is all they had at the grocery store," he explained, and started placing them about the kitchen in corners.

"I don't like glue traps," I said. "I thought you would got to the hardware store."

"I'll deal with them," he said.

"Okay..." I said.

And so when, a few hours later, I heard this teensy, horrid little SCREAMING coming from the corner in the kitchen, I naturally turned straight on my heel and called in the resident Man. The screaming intensified as The Man did whatever he did to that mouse and I shuddered, and then cried in the next room.

These creatures have relatively developed nervous systems. There's a reason why a mouse -why any creature - screams like that. He knows he's in trouble, he knows he's trapped. I've seen studies on what happens to animals when they're rendered helpless - cortisol levels, heart rates, dilated pupils, and so on; Dude. They KNOW.

And there's reason why mice are used as surrogate humans in experiments. They are similar to us.

"No more glue traps." I said to Colin in a measured voice as we left the apartment that night.

And so it is we've since gone at them with snap traps, and poison, and yes there's still a -torture- trap sitting on the counter which hasn't caught anyone, yet, thank god.

But we never expected that THE FAN was also a weapon in our arsenal.

"I can't figure out how to get it out," calls The Man as I search for shoes and grab my phone and the spare keys to Jessica's apartment. "Here, you can wear my slippers..." he offers. I hear him THUNKing at the fan as I make my way into the smoky hallway, up one flight of stairs to my neighbor's.

There are more fire fighters in the hallway up there. "You have access to the basement now," they laugh, responding to Colin's earlier comment that last week we couldn't let the cable guy into the back yard because Orazzio (the landlord) keeps a stiff padlock on the basement door - the basement being the only way to the back yard.

So far I've accounted for two doors and a window which have fallen under one of those wicked looking axes. They say they're relieved I have keys, because they could hear the little dogs barking, but maybe were also looking forward to busting down something else, I can't really tell behind the masks.

I can already hear the newly broken door to the roof upstairs, swinging in the rain against the building. THUUUUNk. THUUUNk. Thunk - beeeep - someone's CO2 detector is still going off. BAm - BAM- BAm go the dripping hot men's boots on the hollow wooden stairs. Voices ring in the hallway. Acrid, oily smoke. Jessica's chijuajuas must be freaking out.

But they merely seem happy to see me, as I run around opening windows with one hand and calling Kristina, owner of the dog downstairs, with the other. These tiny dogs seem puzzled, but they're all right. Stuart is far more frail than the last time I saw him, but I know it is because he has conjestive heart failure and nothing to do with the current crisis. His ribs shift too easily and his heart is beating fast and a little irregularly when I pick him up for a closer inspection, but I hold him and talk in what I hope are soothing tones between cell phone calls, and ultimately he seems like his old self.

I don't have a key to Kristina's apartment, so she grabs a car and speeds home from work. Her dog, although younger, is considerably less delicate than the chijuajuas, so we're not too worried about him, but it seems advisable to get him some Carbon with two Oxygens instead of one, somehow. Hank, all spring and cluelessness, jumps eagerly at my face as Kristina hands me a set of spare keys. In case of next time.

Which we didn't expect tonight.

Post-script: The boiler man arrived, (landlord called me to let him in - why? because none of the buzzers are working...) he broke the lock to the basement, (second time today) says the boiler is badly maintained and we should call the department of Buildings. Whatever that is.

Then he told me where the emergency shut-off switch is.

"See ya," he says. "Good luck!"

It Takes a Village

February has come to Brooklyn with a flurry of teensy hard, penetrating, freezing objects and a hungry wind. From my window I watch a teenager wearing a leather jacket and no scarf bursts out of his apartment across the street, squinting hard and shouting "whoooooooo!" and he and his rebel yell disappear up toward 5th Avenue. I hope he doesn't have far to go.

The first line of defense against the cold - I learned this growing up in Wisconsin, though maybe not as well as you'd think - is to not go out.

This can be a dubious tactic in our apartment. The one radiator which operates "normally" is in the far corner of the place, in the kitchen. The one in the living room has never worked at all, and the one in the bedroom is turned either all ON or all OFF with a wrench, and only a wrench. (I cursed Colin out load when he borrowed that wrench for a the load-in of a show last week and didn't bring it back for a whole day and a half.)

Then sometimes, to get your core temperature up above 75 or so, you just have to take a bath. You know what I mean. You get that kind of cold at the cellular level, the same cold you feel in that shank of pork when you grab it out of the freezer, and the only way to get it warm enough to cook is to defrost it slowly in hot water. My arm feels like that today.

So I need a soak, but it takes planning. A bath in our apartment begins with boiling water on the stove - as many pots as you can find clean. Then you open the tap in the bathroom about half way, let it run until it's warm. Then you start with the tub. Fill it until the water turns cold, or about 1/4 way. Then you wait.

In about ten minutes, if you're lucky, there will be another spot of hot water. Sometimes we sit around with our neighbors and argue about whether the best way to get at this next "layer" of hot water is to continue running water into the bathroom sink, or turn it off completely for ten minutes and turn it on again. But in the period of about ten minutes, by some miracle, out comes warm water again. Usually.

The trouble is you have to be there when it hits, or you may miss it, so I sit on the toilet with my finger under the tap and protect the bathroom like it's a cave and I'm a mother grizzly looking after her young. I fill the bath until it runs cold again, wait.

Now the trick is to get the third fill in before the first two are cold. Again, the dilemma of whether to run the water, or turn it off.? Either way it must be checked every few minutes. After all, now I'm really invested and I'll cry if I don't get my bath. Have cried.

On the third fill one can usually get the tub almost brimming with warm water. But to get it truly hot enough for a real bath? Well, that's where your boiling water comes in. I learned about that after crying the first couple times, about the third time Colin said, "why don't you jsut boil some water?" I guess it was some primal need to feel too sophisticated, at arms length from the elements.

This time of year you can almost feel Mother Earth waddling with the weight of spring not yet ready to come. Even in New York City, the city of lights, everything is laden with cold and dark.

I wonder if it's my mission teach these people something. Why are they wearing jeans in 20 degree weather? Is it because they are a mostly indoor- dwelling people? Where are their Turtle Furs? (http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-url/index=apparel-index&field-keywords=turtle%20fur%20neck&results-process=bin&dispatch=search/ref=pd_sl_aw_tops-1_apparel-index_29143143_2&results-process=default)

If my personal heating and cooling systems were powered by oil, we'd have outgrown our foreign dependence long ago. My systems can hardly be bothered to hicchough out a little heat in a snowstorm, or break out a few beads of sweat to cool me down in the citified heat of August. So, as they say in Colorado ...It's all about the "pro" (a.k.a. "protection," as climbers call weather gear.)

I got hypothermic in a pool once. It was the last class of my diver's certification training, the last time I'd be in the "comfort" of a pool before being led into the murky depths of the 45 degree Racine quarry with no one but my instructor. John sent me to the showers when he swears he saw my lips turn blue. I remember standing in the showers of the high school gym when the warm water hit by chest, trying desperately not to pee before I managed to peel off my gear with numb fingers and run to the toilet . But as it's said in the diver world, there are two kinds of divers: Those who pee in their wetsuits and those who say they don't pee in their wetsuits.

So I don't go out in this kind of weather without "the works": My winter coat weighs maybe 5 pounds by itself. Add boots, a Wind Stopper hat (http://www.rei.com/product/703274) and - my neck gaiter, and honestly? I am toasty-comfy. I feel like I'm pregnant, too - in tandem with the entire Northern Hemisphere.

Our friend Tania, who with her partner, Dave, really is pregnant, had her big baby shower last night. I was a little apprehensive about going. It wasn't the cold, exactly, more like it was largely a family affair and Colin was too wrapped up in tech for yet another show to come. But in the end I thought, here is an unhealthy element in my relationship with Colin which I can address by taking action tonight: I rely on him for social back-up, (which is a bad idea because he's never home) and he relies on me for financial back- up (an equally bad idea since I have no money.) I should just go on -and out- without him.

So I was pleased to discover it was really a solidly welcoming affair. For the first hour or so I stood in the corner like a ravenous wallflower, eating marvelous Thai food and admiring the masks and paintings on the wall.

Then a couple people I know showed up, and atmosphere began to warm up for me. The love in the room was palpable and without pretense. Tania's mom and step mom got up and sang an original song called Two Grandma's from Jersey City, using a tune I can only say resembled the children's tune, Four Chartruse Buzzards and singularly brought the house down, some in tears..

Tanias mom and her wife, (neither a professional singer, but making up for anything lacking in artfulness with sheer gusto,) alternated singing about a litany of things the two of them would contribute to the life of little Henry/Max/Olan/whatever. And they played on their respective racial stereotypes, which made it even more of a hoot. "I'll take him hiking," "I'll teach him bargaining," "I'll take him biking," "I'll teach him B-ball," and they invited the third Grandma to join them in the final chorus.

"Three Grandmas from Jersey City" still rings in my head as I, leaving my car with them to help transport a motherload of presents, board the train and come home with a tummyful of warm food and a headful of little reflections.

Like, standing there, for a moment I thought I could almost feel Pat Robertson breathing between my shoulder blades. The notion of anyone having children out of wedlock...and oh! my goodness T has two mommies! It seems so normal to me now I almost forgot to look over my shoulder for the Rush Limbaughs and the Ann Coulters and the - oh, this whole gathering could stand a lot of people's hair on end, I suppose.

But wouldn't it be cool to invite a few of them in here, out of the cold, to throw one back with forty whole-hearted attitudes of welcome, filling a spectrum of shades, all waiting and eager to catch this baby gently with open arms, and become little aunties and Tee-tees and mentors and friends?

But never say "It Takes a Village," even if you think a whole community should behave in a nurturing way to a child. Because then they'll call you a communist, for sure.

Oh, you haven't heard that one? Hillary Clinton is a communist because she spoke about -using different words, albeit - what conservatives have been talking about all along - family values. Never mind that people throw around the word C'ommunist and Socialist as if they knew what they mean.

What Christian Church wouldn't say it takes the whole community of the church to raise a child? (Isn't that what baptism is all about?) Don't most people - liberal and conservative - generally agree that each community, town, county, state, city, and nation must form concentric rings of support for the next generation?

They disagree upon the details, but that's the jist of it. I mean, call it family, village, circle of friends, church, school, extended family, city street, community center, space ship full of aliens, I may not be a parent, but it's clear to me that SOMEbody has to come together to raise a child; it can't be done alone (well, it can, but we've all seen how grumpy bears can be.)

My head is full of thoughts, like whether vegetarianism is the new morality, and whether T is comfortable standing there or whether she'd rather be sitting, and like whether it's like your family or not, this is family in America today.

I think we may disagree as to who and how, and how much to help a teen in trouble or kids who don't have health insurance, but I don't see anyone proposing we make a parent bake their kid from start to finish on their own. And I don't see that this is a problem faced by only one kind of family.

For my part, since I don't have kids, I make sure Colin doesn't go out on cold days without a hat.

Down and Out in the Caribbean

February 2, 2008

Dear American Airlines,

On January 19, 2008, I set out to travel on Flight # 637 from La Guardia, ultimately destined for a relaxing beach vacation in the Cayman Islands.

My flight was delayed several hours. I spent a half hour on the phone with an agent figuring out how to get me to Cayman that day, was put on hold and eventually hung up on.

I figured that was just an understandable mistake.

Eventually I got on a flight with the same number, leaving LGA at 5pm. It was also delayed.

I figured I'd rather be on a late plane than a broken one.

In Miami I rushed to catch my connection on the last Cayman Airways flight of the day, which I had a seat on, but because no one had ever given me a boarding pass I was turned away by security at the entrance to the gates. There was no one left at the Cayman Airways desk and I missed my flight.

I figured AA had no control over this situation and there was nothing to be done.

I was given hotel, shuttle and meal vouchers by an American Airlines agent, which was nice. I noticed others who were not so lucky.

Due to the party atmosphere in the shuttle I didn't notice at first, but was puzzled when I realized the "fifteen minute ride to the hotel" found me out somewhere in the middle of the Everglades. I was actually lucky on several accounts. I told a fellow traveler I had a toothbrush but no toothpaste and he reached back into his back and said, "Here, I insist..I work for a cosmetics company," and handed me a small tube of toothpaste.

Forty Minutes later I saw circling spotlights in the sky, and found myself at a casino! (With a hotel.)

Which was a problem only because the shuttle was booked for the entire day for the return trip, (I mean thank goodness I don't have a gambling addiction! Really, I am quite flush with luck!) so I paid over $50 out of pocket for a cab. The cab driver was quite an interesting guy. Yet I've enclosed the receipt for the cab (minus tip), along with my unused voucher for travel on the shuttle.

Miami airport, which I'd tried my hardest to avoid on a Sunday (aka Cruise Day), was a virtual zoo, with security lines out the door and wait times over an hour and a half for the privilege of being screened.

Again, my flight #561 from Miami to Cayman, was delayed.

I figured this was all part of the "spirit" of travel.

Not surprisingly, my luggage wasn't at the airport when I arrived. No one knew if it had gotten on the Cayman Airways flight which I missed, or was on an American flight somewhere.

My luggage didn't appear the next day, so an agent released $50 for me to spend on clothing. With the dollar as weak as it was in Cayman, it bought me a pair of sunglasses and a clean tank top. I figured this was a life lesson in doing without. Receipt enclosed.

On the evening of Tuesday, Jan 22 (after my third night without luggage), I was excited to hear my suitcase arrived at the front desk of my hotel!

I noticed right away my bag was damaged. The handle was bent right in the middle, so I couldn't retract it without a lot of difficulty.

It had all my stuff in it, though, so I was happy. Now I could finally go snorkeling, which was the whole purpose of my trip. I'd already missed 4 days of potential 6 days of snorkeling, so I got right to it.

I figured of course American would take responsibility for the damage and fix or replace my suitcase, so all would be well. The next day (after snorkeling) I called American Airlines. I was advised to call my arrival airport, Grand Cayman.

A few (expensive) phone calls there revealed a troubling conundrum: I had to return my luggage to the airport between the hours of 6 and 9pm the next day in order for them to even consider taking responsibility for the damage. A cab ride to the airport would cost me $75 each way, making it a $150 round trip. Which I'm sure is more than the luggage cost in the first place. And the offer didn't come with any promise of a fix.

So on Friday, Jan 25 I went to the airport for my return flight, and presented my luggage problem for help. I waited a half hour to talk to someone, who has surprising news for me. Apparently because the damage was to the handle, it isn't covered my American Airlines. The agent handed me a piece of paper explaining that they aren't responsible for any part of the luggage which is protruding.

But the handle should never have been "protruding." When I checked my suitcase, the handle was completely retracted. On its journey from New York to the Grand Cayman Islands, the handle of my little red suitcase should never have been extracted. It should have remained tucked in, where it was safe and sound.

Instead, it looks like someone took it out, stomped on it, took a hack saw to it, and then tried to bend it back in.

I was told I could accept the damage or leave it. As I had no other place to put my stuff, I chose the former.

At security I discovered I was supposed to have put my Flax seed oil pills in a zip-lock bag, and didn't have one big enough, so I had to do some last minute re-arranging. I understand the federal government is in charge of this but somehow that doesn't make me any more chipper about it.

My flight #1018 on Friday, Jan 25, back to Miami was, of course, delayed. There was somebody with a broken plane in our gate, so we had to sit on the runway while it was fixed. The line for customs was really long. The line for security was longer. So, despite a layover time of 2 hours and 20 minutes, I had to run to the gate - this is beginning to feel familiar to me now - and almost missed my flight (#1076) to New York.

Of course there were delays at our arrival airport, La Guardia (when is there not?), and we ended up circling over Phili on the way in. My back was killing me - I have a bulging disk, and an autoimmune connective tissue disease and sitting is just no fun for me (why do you think I like snorkeling so much?) so I was pretty strung out by this point.

When I got home I noticed my luggage was damaged further - the metal edge reinforcement was broken in half. I don't know if that part of the damage was there when I arrived in Cayman, but I do know I can't use it anymore.

But the damage apparently isn't covered my American's luggage damaged policy.

I'm really disappointed by that. I took all the other hassles in stride, but not taking responsibility for what was certainly a gross mishandling of my luggage is not in the character of the airline I use most.

I do appreciate the 4K miles added to my FF account in response to the overnight delay. But I'd like my bag fixed or replaced, and reimbursement for the cab I had to take and the clothes bought while I waited three days for my luggage.

I think I'll post this letter to my blog (http://nikinaeve.blogspot.com/) and see if others find it entertaining.


Thanks,



Nicole Naeve
Record Locator #GUVVHZ

Enclosed:
Clothes receipt
Taxi receipt
Unused travel voucher (unusable because service was booked)
Damaged luggage report
Pics of damaged luggage

Stress = Inflammation. Period.

Stress causes inflammation, which causes pain.

I don't think I'm any more stressed out than anybody else in the Western World. But maybe it should be more than just me who's paying attention.

Every teenager knows when they get stressed out, they get a breakout. Duh. But how about diabetes? Arthritis? Asthma? Obesity? Chron's disease? Allergies? Thyroid disease? Cancer?

I've been doing a little reading and here's the quick run-down of my understanding of this process:

Anxiety ---> triggers hypothalmus ---> triggers pituitary gland ---> triggers adrenal gland ---produces cortisol -----> whole body inflammation ---> BAD.

I mean, sounds like inflammation is OK for that quickie fix for a scratch or a twisted ankle, or a cold. It protects us. But long-standing inflammation is bad. Very, very bad.

Pondering my own circumstances, I'm thinking, I've cut back on like 75% of my activities from when I was in my 20's. I don't have stress, right?

But lack of activities doesn't necessarily mean lack of stress. It can help, but I suspect ther'es more going on here than meets the eye.

So last week I spent some time meditating - or as close to it as I ever get to meditation - and observed my body's reactions to various input as I went my merry way over the next week. I worked to notice that "crawling" sensation, that feeling in your gut that you're not quite settled, the leaning forward, shoulders rising, breath quickening, the wrinkling at the front of my brain, the pursed lips.

I noticed a surprising amount of - well, stress.

Where did this come from? Well, surely that will be an interesting study as I continue to observe. It's probably different for everybody. I've noticed I can connect a good deal of it to thoughts of planning the immediate future in detail: OK, I'm going to the subway, then I'll go down the stairs, then I'm getting on the train...I could take the N or the D at Atlantic. Do I have everything I need for work?

Of course the irritating irony is that having chronic illness begets stress. I know I never used to be such an obsessive planner. But now I'm totally stressed about where I'm going to find a bathroom, have I packed too much weight for my finicky back (but do I carry sufficient supplies in case something goes wrong, like my inhaler in case of asthma attack, an extra tank top for the sweats and ginger candy for nausea?) Will I have enough energy to complete my tasks for the day? Have I made satisfactory progress on my personal goals this week?

It's been a great exercise to observe these thoughts and my body's reaction, then gently remind myself to fall back into "totally OK" mode.

FYI I've noticed that Telling myself to relax doesn't work. My body flips a virtual finger right back at me.

I seek a vehicle for manipulation against my more basic self.

So I'll tell a telling tale, which I've been telling myself this week. I met a circus performer once who had spent much of his life making a living as a clown in a children's hospital. He told me how he used to get kids to take their medicine. He'd snatch the abhorred medicine up and prance around the room, saying things like, "Mmmmm, I wish I could have this...looks yummy! I am feeling a little peckish, right now. In fact I think I WILL take it. After all nobody will miss it. I..."

And pretty soon the child would ask for it back, grab it, and take it with satisfaction. What a thing, to be a clown.

Like a child , I believe the body will leap at the chance to save itself once showed its options. "You can continue to feel like this, and it will get worse, or you can have...oh, lookie that! Yum! The OK , cool place! Ahhhh!"

I think most of us don't see the choice, most of the time.