But Slenderly. . .

1916-2008

Marcelle C. Garland -- I loved her very much. 

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older,
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

May all of you be so lucky to have a person in your life like my grandmother.  She wasn't always easy, but she was truly delightful. 

Summer Daze

Oh it is a cold and rainy gray day in Manhattan today.  And, despite my pledge of healthy eating and exercise, I managed to inhale an enormous lunch while planning drinks with friends tonight, Wednesday night and Friday night. Why, she said in a rather heavy-handed set-up, it's just as if I'm learning to be a summer associate again!

Well, ho ho! As it turns out, I am going to be reliving my summer associate days in a way. In a strange, happy twist of fate, I'm going to be helping run our program this year which will translate into shepherding 45+ sweet young things through work assignments and fancy lunches, 4 am karaoke nights and sailing on the Hudson.  It sort of boggles my mind. What can I say? I'm both excited and pleased with a heaping spoonful of trepidation mixed in. I cautiously voiced some concerns to some pals (mainly about me being old as the hills and married and not all whhooooooo! parrttttyyy! and hey, what about my cases?), but as my friend E gently explained to me, my role may be more along the lines of a "smiley approximation of authority" than 24-hour party person.  To which I say, phew.   

AND.  Did I mention that part of this gig is getting totally shielded from all other work?  Work like lawyer work?  Billable work?  Briefs and memos and conference call work?  It speaks volumes of my dorkatude, but I am already a little wistful for my cases.  Nonetheless, not being one to look a Mr. Ed-sized gifthorse in the mouth, three months is a pretty nice break from the usual routine, eh?  I'm looking forward to it.

I have to say, I loved my summer back in the day.  After my first year of law school, I got a grant to do public interest work and did homeless advocacy in Berkeley.  My 2L year though, I bit the bullet and interviewed at a bunch of firms, agonized briefly over which one to chose, and ended up in the right place for me.  I worked in one of the California offices and my memories are of working quite hard actually (it's not all ice cream trips and fancy lunches), writing memos and acting truly ridiculous with my cohorts. 

Yes, there was a weekend in wine country, picnics on the beach, a retreat in LA.  All of that.  But the hands-down best event was white-water rafting.  A (now retired) partner, Larry, who I loved, led the charge every year.  Larry was a corporate guy, but was heavy heavy into Native American culture and artwork.  He devoted a huge portion of his time doing pro bono work for a tribe in Arizona and his office was covered with paintings and bronze sculptures.  He wore a heavy silver turquoise bracelet that I noticed my first day shaking his hand – and I remember thinking, "huh, interesting." (read: what kind of hippie place was this alleged "white glove" firm anyway?)

So Larry has big into the white river rafting and organized a trip up to Oregon every summer.  We – DK got to come too -- met up early in San Francisco on Friday morning, got on a bus and drove for eight hours to the campsite.  And the bus ride!  God, we had to watch endless footage of Larry on various class 5 rivers, some instruction video and, disturbingly -- Deliverance.  Yes, Deliverance – a movie that haunts me to this day.  Nothing quite says Camping Trip Woot! like backwater crazy hick rapists, am I right? 

The rafting itself was a blast, with heart-thumping maneuvering and dips and rocks and lots of water splashed everywhere.  At one point, DK pulled Larry back into the raft when he went ass over teakettle after a particuarly steep bump.  And later, we all sat around a giant camp fire passing around a bottle of hideous moonshine Larry picked up god knows where, telling stories.  We all slept out under the stars -- per mandate that the night was "too beautiful for tents." (hippie). The outfit that organized the tour woke us up the next morning with mimosas and fresh mango and sizzling bacon.  Then we sort of floated down the river (there wasn't any hard rafting that day), lolling about in the sunshine. 

I wonder if January is too early to start daydreaming of outdoorsy fun.  What's that? It's frigid out?  Right you are.  But we are going on vacation in eight short days in warmer climes.  Oh sun, old friend, can't wait to see you.

The Enforcer

I have always been something of a priss about rules.  And though I have merrily broken many minor ones I have decided do not apply to me at one time or another, my stomach tightens and I get all antsy when Fundamental Rules are broken.  Such Rules include the obvious moratoriums on killing and stealing, but run right down the gamut to not running red lights; replacing a toilet paper roll when you use it up, not wearing a micromini and halter top to work (I'm looking at you Rachael W from Dallas – despite what Ally McBeal taught, sometimes it's not appropriate for me to see all but see your lady business during a business meeting).  But since we moved to New York, I have become an even fiercer believer in the Rousseauian social contract.  Rabid, even.

In New York, there is no wide open zone of privacy.  My walk to the subway is a negotiation in sidewalk etiquette.  The train to work is an incredibly complicated social dance.  Who will get a seat?  Can you ask that (rude) man to stop splaying out his legs so another person can fit on the bench?  Is my purse zipped up?  When it's a really crowded train, should I avert my eyes despite being pushed up against some stranger? Or should I ruefully grin to acknowledge the awkwardness?  My office is relatively private, but my door is rarely closed and I can always hear the murmur of phone calls and meetings.  Even our apartment, our oasis, is not entirely private.  The next door neighbor's yippy dogs.  The woman above who won't take off her high heels as she click-clacks about.  The person who leaves the light on every time in the garbage/recycling room.  And don't get me started on the necessity of blinds and shades and curtains when you look out on the beautiful vista of . . .another apartment building across the street.

So, being in basically constant contact with my fellow species makes the rules all the more critical.  It's the thin strand that keeps us all from going all Lord of the Flies on each other.  And when those rules are routinely flouted, well, people (me) can get annoyed.  Antsy.  Pissed off.  So when you visit New York and think, "God! People are so rude.  They are so angry."  Cut us some slack; we're constantly negotiating a huge number of unspoken social rules and quietly (or not so quietly) enforce them.  My biggest failing is my deep, dear desire to be made a hall monitor.  To be an Official Enforcer of the Social Contract by special commendation by Mayor Bloomberg.  I daydream of handing out rule lists and demerits to the guilty.  You!  Daring to walk THREE to a sidewalk, dawdling, poking along, not allowing faster people to pass? DEMERIT.

Has the social contract been forgotten?  Heaven forbid.  I actually sometimes wonder if people are just assholes or just don't know.  Well, if it's the latter, look no further.  Here are the main violations that make my head explode:

·      Do not litter. Please, throw your trash in one of the ubiquitous receptacles on every street corner. DK and I were walking down the street a few weeks ago and saw these two men talking on the other side of the street.  Heavy-set, vaguely Russian mob-like, one of the pair pulled out a cigarette and casually flicked the empty carton right into the street.  He didn't hesitate, he didn't even glance around.  Just threw the entire package into the gutter.  We both sucked in an outraged breathe.  Shameless. I muttered.  And DK, the hall monitor of all hall monitors, marched across the street, picked up the pack, waved it at the pair, and said, "What are you doing?  There's a trash can right there -- what is wrong with you?"  They looked at him like he was from Mars.  I looked at them to judge whether or not they were going to punch DK in the face.  Luckily, they were more bemused than angry and watched him march off to throw away the trash.  Sigh.

·      Let people get off the subway train car before you push your way in.  This kills me.  My old beloved assistant (Hi S! When are we getting a drink?) once told me that she actually lost it one time and bopped a woman who refused to move a centimeter to let people off the train with her roll of wrapping paper.  It made a very satisfying twoop! sound, but then S ran like the dickens off the train before fists were thrown.

·      Escalators: Stand on the Right; Pass on the Left: It's like on the road.  And I am not above employing a dramatic or two to let the road block person know it's time to move aside – a slightly sterner step (stomp), a heavy sigh heaved. What?  Passive agressive who?  Oh, me.  Yes.   

·      Stop Hogging the Sidewalk.  Let's say you are walking with your family.  It's a lovely family, I'm sure.  You, the parents, your adorable kiddies there in a pram. Note to self: you do not all need to be in a single line, a single slow dawdling line.  Walk in twos so people can pass you. 

·      Random Public Spitters.  It's gross.  Stop it.  Employ a Kleenex. 

·      Don't Blare Music, Play Your Bongo Drums, Scream, Have a Dance Party, or Drunkenly Sing With Your Loudmouth Old Frat Brothers past 10 pm at Night.  Also known as our neighbors.  And they're actually not so bad.

·      Subway Special: (a) Don't lean your entire body up against the pole.  Everyone around you wants to use the pole and we don't want your sweaty back pressed against our hand.  (b) Don't splay your legs out and put your packages next to you on the seat so you can (purposely) prevent someone else from sitting down.  It's always men who do this.  Seriously, who sits that way?  I know you're doing it to be a prick – stop it.  (c) give up the seat for the pregnant lady or elderly.  It's just the right thing to do.  (d) if it's a crowded train, move into the aisles so it doesn't turn into a horrible crush right by the door.  Yes, I'm looking at you.  Move in, already. (e) if someone accidentally steps on your foot, or their bag knocks against you, chill out.  It's a train, stuff happens.  There is no need to call that person a "fucking bitch."  Particularly if they've already apologized.  It just makes you seem like a crazy, nasty person.  (it was an accident! my bag barely grazed her! I apologized immediately!)

There's probably more, but my years of my life have been cruelly shaved away over rampant abuses of the above rules.  Your turn.  Is there a social contract rule that you dearly wish people would adhere to?  Back in my driving days, I was all about turn signal abuse.  Wow, my heart just started racing thinking about it.

This Aunt business isn't so bad

I walked into my office this morning to completely fogged-out white windows.  It's like working up in the clouds – I can't see Park Avenue at all, much less any building or slice of sky. New York has disappeared, save for the whirl of helicopters and the omnipresent faint ring of jackhammers that reach me even up on the 49th floor.  For whatever reason, the soft, unrelenting white haze has sparked me to delve into Hard Core Office Tidy.  I sent twelve binders to records; trashed stack after stack of case law (why do I keep them – for months afterward?)  I store little piles like a foraging squirrel in all sorts of little corners, under my desk, next to my drawer.  Cases with various colors of tabs and different colors of highlighting and my cryptic scrawl across the top ("+ on materiality; denies c, cite lang").  I just looked down at the pile closest to me and it says, "Ish.  statute [underlined three times] allows change-in-terms; can be disting."  Of course.  Well put.  Well, pfooosh, into the recycling bin with you!  Ish or no ish.

It's been a pretty laid back 2008, delightfully so.  DK's been battling the sick since we got back from Portland, though he's finally on the mend.  Sadly, he couldn't come down to Philadelphia with me last weekend because we have seen first hand what germs + kiddos can wreck.  And we like my sister too much to do that to her.  But it was a bummer since I was all excited about trying out zipcar together.  [do you know it? It's a great idea for city dwellers who bid a fond bon voyage to the old car and who weren't allowed to bring their Vespa with them to NYC because of "taxis" and "you'll kill yourself" admonishments.  Sigh.  Anyway, for an annual fee, you can use these zipcars for quick hour trips, or weekends at a reasonable price, all insurance, gas etc. paid for.  And you don't have to deal with some car rental hassle, just take your zipcard to the nearest location – for us, across the street – and use it to unlock the car . . . and go!]  Anyway, I was all het up about the inaugural zipcar outing and had reserved a Mini Cooper because I thought DK would have fun driving it and because I knew it would thrill the pants off my five year old nephew. 

Despite DK's malingering cold and due to a surprisingly draconian cancellation policy, I still went, just solo mio.  And damn if that car wasn't fun to drive.  So little and zippy like!  And I got to do what I love doing on car trips: namely, blasting the music really loud and singing at the top of my lungs. So I sang my little heart out, busted a move or three, spent some time marveling at how much of my brain RAM is used storing up the lyrics to 70s classic rock songs and getting terribly dumbass lost THREE times. 

At one point, I was convinced I had suffered some sort of early onset Alzheimer's or a mini-stroke because, dude, how can one girl be so dumb? Lapse in Judgment One:  I missed a big turn off.  Flew right by it. I realized it as I was passing it, cursed, calculatingly eyed the traffic around me, and chose to exercise some restraint instead of careening my car over three lanes of traffic to make my exit (how I've changed from my younger days.  Self, I barely know you).  Lapse in Judgment Two.  Then, once I got sorted and back on track, I sternly told myself to pay attention and not be a dumbass, but then, not twenty minutes later, whoosh, I passed my next important exist.  Now, say what you will about the Pennsylvania turnpike, but this is what I say: I hate you.  I HATE YOU TURNPIKE.  Because unlike most normal highways where mistakes are made and one can quickly turn around at the next exit and no one is the wiser, on the turnpike, you have to drive twenty miles before the next possible turnaround.  Twenty miles.  Anyway, I cursed like a sailor, screeched "JESUS CHRIST KATHLEEN"* and drove on.  And on.  Until finally I got to that magical, elusive exit that shimmered in the distance like a mirage. I got off and turned around and decided to call my sister.  While I was gabbing on the phone with "hate the turnpike, seriously, seriously, oh my god" I looked up and the inevitable fork in the road.  One sign said East; one sign said West.  I said, "Wait, which one? Where am I?  EAST? WEST? Marcelle!" and I couldn't think and there were cars and I took West (hint: wrong) and got back on the goddamn turnpike heading the wrong way AGAIN.  That was Lapse in Judgment Three, in case you were wondering. 

[*Kathy Griffin.]

Anyway, a sad boiling rage took over and I primal screamed as loud as I could and then, just . . . drove.  What can you do?  I just gave into my fate of being a shitty direction taker driver and drove.  West.  Some more.  Then I pulled into a rest stop and got out, shakily, and wandered inside to use the restroom.  It did occur to me around this time (now 3:00) (I left at 11:45) (it is a two-hour drive) that I hadn't eaten anything all day besides a cup of tea, which DK is fond of reminding me, isn't actually food.  So I inhaled a Danish, got a big ol' latte and pulled out googlemaps.  Turns out, I could take a back way and called my brother-in-law who guided me gently through the windy trails of northern PA.  I arrived, battle hardened, weary, but in one piece. 

I was just there for a day, but it was grand.  I went on two nice runs with my sister – which is always fun because I turn into annoying jock woman and spend the whole time swatting her butt saying "hustle up!" and "let's do this one fast."  What? She loves it.  And then I devoted the rest of the time to being Aunt Nancy Extraordinaire.  Those kiddies are so cute – Connor (5) and Vivan (2) are these little blond, blue-eyed imps.  All they wanted to do was tackle me, giggle, play hide and seek.  Vivvy isn't so hot at the hide-and-seek though she loves it. I count to ten and call out, "Where are you?  I'm going to find you" and I hear this little voice pipe up, "Here is!  Here is!"  And I find two grinning muchkins behind an arm chair.  And when she's doing the looking, we count together "One, two, three, six, nine, ten" and she trundles off, sing-song calling "Where is?  Brother, where is?"  I taught Viv how to Eskimo kiss and called her a silly goose, which she loved and would point at me and say "'Illy 'oose!"  And they both pull up their shirts to display buddah bellies for me to tickle and zerbet.  They adore being tossed on the sofa with a pile of pillows.  They have to take turns getting tossed and woe be it if I spend a hair too long tickling Miss Viv.  Connor has gotten very accustomed to having me all to himself and there was one instance of some tears and a time out and the saddest little wail of, "But Mommy, she's my Aunt Nancy! She's mine!" 

Ah me, they are cute.  Marcelle worries that she's not doing enough, is working too many hours at her job, isn't consistent enough with bedtimes or routine or discipline.  But she and Michael are clearly doing something right because they are raising two of the sweetest and good natured little tykes around.  I love being around them and feel lucky to have four of the best nephew and niecelets ever.  To the point where I routinely find myself thinking of things we can do when they're older – I planned in my head on the drive back the music compilation I'm going to give Connor when he turns twelve (all the classics he'll need to form a core collection – some Beatles, some Zepplin, some Miles Davis.  Suite Judy Blue Eyes or Sweet Home Alabama?); introducing Viv to the Nutcracker.  Taking them to try new foods and see New York through their eyes.  DK and I in the midst of planning as "Silly Topo" book for my Portland niece (another absurd dreamboat) who was fascinated by all the ridiculous things I told her Topo gets up to ("Aunt Nancy, what's another silly thing that Topo does?")  So thank you siblings for making such awesome children.  We'll try to return the favor one of these days.

Auld Lang Syne

You know what's been awesome?  The last week or so.  After a serious whirlwind of December craziness with my usual heaps and piles of work, things . . . got quieter.  I've lounged on the couch, read book after book, snoozed on DK's chest, played elaborate games of hide and seek with the cat.  It's been lovely to have a week or so of downtime, to be lazy and indulgent.  I haven't checked my blackberry for days and when I do, there's nothing important to respond to, like my whole little chaotic world has gone into a much needed hibernation. 

One of the biggest stress relievers in our home was that on December 20th, DK had his PhD art history orals, the last major hurdle of his hyper-competitive program before he can start his dissertation.  And he passed, swimmingly passed, passed with élan.  Panache, if you will.  As I knew he would, for DK is a walking encyclopedia of artistic knowledge and has a verbal dexterity that frankly still takes me aback after all these many years, but it is nonetheless a huge relief to get to close that chapter.  He's gotten up every morning since early September at 6am to start studying, to review article after article of crazily esoteric theory and –isms and to memorize provenance and look hard at objects and read biographical details and craft arguments for how it all relates to X and Y and Z.  And he's still been his usual sweet self, doing the laundry, the endless chores, entertaining our little marauder of a cat.  What can I say?  I'm a proud wife – I've puffed up my chest and am crowing his accomplishment to the world.  COCK A DOODLE DOO! 

The night before the big test, however, was a little touch and go since for the first time, DK seemed stressed out and a little manic and perhaps a touch snappish.  Even in the best of times, DK is the lightest of sleepers and never can get more than four or five hours a night, sometimes a little less, rarely a little more.  The cat could cuddle too close, the temperature could be a hair too warm, the city noise from the bar five blocks away could reach his tender ears.  (Oh god, I have to remember to write about how last week DK LEFT THE APARTMENT at 5am to go yell at a bunch of DRUNK FRAT BOYS who were singing loudly outside.)  Anyway, Princess?  Meet pea.  While I happily snooze without a thought.  The cat gets too close?  I swat him away.  The room too hot?  I kick off the blankets.  I can nap on a dime, and boy howdy, do I ever.  So, the night before his exam, I sternly told myself that when Topo started his nightly 4 am kitty calisthenics around the bed, ripping up papers, batting that damn shaky mouse toy around, I, Nancy, would wake and deal with him.  DK would sleep, as god as my witness, DK would sleep. 

DK did not sleep.  True to his usual troublesome nature, Topo was in rare form early early that morning (3:45 am early), perhaps sensing that we just wanted him to shut.up.jesus.christ.cat.  Through my haze of sleep, I heard him batting at a vase of dried flowers I had irresponsibly placed on the windowsill.  The kind of dried flowers that make a really huge puff ball mess and the exact, precise type that cats like Topo love to crush into a million little pieces.  So, did I quietly wake and steal stealthily out of bed to get the vase without waking DK?  Ah, no.  No.  Instead, I bellowed like a banshee, "TOPO NO TOPO" and leapt out of bed, throwing back the covers.  I streaked over, scaring the shit out of both DK and Topo, the latter of whom jumped for the bed landing squarely on DK's stomach.  As I lurched around, I told DK to stay in bed and wondered where to put the vase where the Troublesome One couldn't reach it.  I ended up sticking it high onto a bookshelf in the bedroom niche.  DK whispered, "Are you sure there's enough depth on that shelf?"  Yes, yes, shhhh, go back to sleep, it's all fine, shhhh.  I tossed the cat out of the bedroom, got back into bed and we both sighed and turned back on our tummies to sleep. 

Until five minutes later when the vase and flowers came crashing down, splintering glass and little bits of dried flower bits everywhere.  Topo was thrilled and streaked back into the bedroom to investigate.  I jumped out of bed again, tried to grab the squirmy cat before he did something like merrily ingest glass or a flower head or ten, and clean up the mess with my other hand.  But alas.  Between the mewling and the shrieking and glass scratching, DK was wide awake.  He huffed off to the couch while I swept up shards.  I peeked out a little while later and saw him curled up in the sofa blanket, light on, books out – and my little grinchy heart broke.  Oh remorse! Me miserable! 

And after some fruitless pleading for him to come back to bed – snarl! growl! he responded -- I went back to sleep, because for all my gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair and rending of garments, DK was up and awake and I was tired.  But the whole rest of the day, I fretted that those few lost precious hours would mean the difference between him passing and him . . . not passing.  A slide would flash up and his tired brain wouldn't be able to place it.  Or, or he would jumble up two schools (constructivism v. futurism?  Hell, I'm well rested and can barely tell you the difference).  Or he would try to nap before his exam and would end up missing his exam because he was so very very tired.  Anyway, as you can imagine, I was very very happy to get a bright chirpy voice after the exam and to meet for some celebratory champagne in Grand Central. 

And our Christmas was grand, filled with many cookies and glasses of wine and delectable presents, and I hope all of you too had lovely lovely holidays.  We went to Portland to spend six days with DK's brother and family and delight in their sweet little four-month lump of cuteness and whirling four-year old dervish of adorable. We even lucked out and got a very rare (so we're told) white Christmas, and celebrated by going out to the backyard to catch big fluffy flakes on our tongues.  Ho, ho, ho. 

It's been a very full 2007 and here, on its last wane, I feel very lucky indeed.  May your 2008 be merry and bright.

Picture Post No. 2

Hi! I cannot tell you how slammed I've been -- 2 am this, early morning that, Christmas shopping here, Oh-my-god-DK's-orals-are-Thursday there.  Between work (and holy moses, there has been ten tons of it) and hieing home as soon as I can and the morass that is December, it's been tough to find a moment.

But it's my birthday today.  32 years old.  And, despite my predictable jokes about being an old lady and "turning 29 again!" (kill me), I feel pretty lucky.  It's been a good one, 2007.  Keep it up. 

Things I Love, part dos:

• Ceramic origami swan on our wreath (no room for tree)

Tip-top Taroooo (aka Topo)

Birthday gift of birch bowl

• 

• Piggybank

• Birthday necklace

• This one in particular:

I have NEVER liked that woman

So a few weeks ago, DK and I went to a seriously swanky book party thrown at the Modern for the author, a Picasso scholar with whom DK is chummy.  I furrowed my brow that morning in my closet, wondering what exactly one should wear for god's sake, that works both for work at a conservative law firm by day and a fancy party that will be attended by, I kid you not, Oscar de la Renta?  And his wife.  And a whole host of glittering New York famous types that I will invariably have to squint to recognize without my glasses?  I'm actually still not certain what the right answer is, but I went with the mullet approach to dressing (classy, I know): fancy gold-toned silk skirt and high, high heels on the bottom; a tasteful black cashmere cowl neck sweater up above. 

So the party.  Swanky.  Mercedes Bass swanning by; Fran Lebowitz; Barbara Walters.  Lots of white haired distinguished-looking gentleman whom we would pass and DK would whisper, "Oh it's so and so architect; blah and blah gallery owner" while I sipped my champagne and tried to look knowing.  Suffice to say, after doing two swings around the party, we settled into a good old gossipy talk with the only other couple we knew there, pointing out the rich and famous while happily accepting the various proffered hors d'oeurves.  Then an older man passed by, a little paunchy, short in stature, thinning hair -- and I swooned.  Calvin Trillin. 

You know how I feel about Calvin.  And here was the golden moment of my daydreams, when we'd meet at a party (well, my daydream it was a dinner party, but I'm not so particular), and get to talking, I'd giggle "OH Mr. Trillin!" and he would say "Please, call me Calvin," and then I'd offer up a particularly funny bon mot and oh, how we'd laugh!  Then he would invite me – and I suppose DK too, since I love him – to go on day-long food tours of New York together, sampling the knishes in Queens, or embark on a quest for the best street vendor food in the city. 

So I eyed him carefully, as he went from group to group, always surrounded by people he actually seemed to (1) already know; and (2) apparently liked.  I planned my approach, practiced in my head what I would say.  But -- I choked.  I hesitated.  DK whispered encouragement, but my face was already red at the thought of breaking up the clearly involved conversation he was having across the room with that certainly nice woman.  DK offered to do it for me – but I declined at the idea that I needed DK to do my dirty work.  Defeated, we made plans to go.  DK went to retrieve my coat while I stared forlornly at the bar where Calvin was talking.

"Damn it" thought I, "You are absurd, self.  Screw up your courage and GO TALK TO THE MAN."  I took a final sip of champagne, banged it on the nearby table and made my way over, clutching my handbag.  Then I slowed, put a composed, slightly distracted face on, and made as if to step by him – as if I was merely on my way past him, see, past him to get a glass of water or something.  I murmured, "Excuse me" and turned – fetchingly, I hope -- to him and fake-widened my eyes (god.).  "Mr. Trillin?  I'm sure you don't remember me, but years ago . . . " I launched in about how I had tooled him around campus when he visited my college and how I was from Kansas City too.  And he smiled and accused me of making that up – so I challenged him to quiz me on local barbeque joints.  And we started to get into it and ah, this rush of euphoria – !

Was interrupted, cruelly interrupted, by that cow Judith Miller.  Bird-thin in that sharp Upper East Side way, she burst into our happy little tete-a-tete to exclaim winningly to him about such and such.  I fixed her with an unkind eye.  She turned, held out her hand, "I'm Judy Miller." "Nancy H__".  We eyed each other and she latched on to Calvin's arm, blathering about "I just had to tell you blah blah."  I took this as my moment to depart.  I interrupted her stream.  "Mr. Trillin – lovely to see you again."  He smiled. 

Now I just need to run into him on the street.  DK made me promise not to stalk -- pah-leeze -- but I'll admit, I've been keeping my eyes open for him on the sidewalks.  You never know, right?  There's a meatball sub with his name on it somewhere in this city, and by gum, I mean to eat it with him. 

Soundtrack of Our Lives (*Not the Swedish Band)

I was just reading Jonniker's entry and, remembering how my 16 year old self used to belt out "Benny and the Jets" played on, not kidding, an 8-track player, it made me laugh. 

AND THINK, she said ponderously.  *cue dramatic music*

I grew up in a house where my mom sang old Broadway tunes in the car and Judy Garland LPs competed with Three Dog Nights.  But mom and dad weren't heavy into music as a badge, in the way some of my friend's parents prided themselves on their massive every-Stones'-album-ever-produced type collection.  Children of the 60's?  Technically yes, but when I begged to go to a Grateful Dead concert in 9th grade, mom asked me if they "were a nice band."  Frankly, my strongest memories of music are from my mom singing as she played the piano – Amazing Grace, Greensleeves, all the songs from Camelot.  Carousel.  Oklahoma.  My sisters and I must know every song in My Fair Lady.  She sang in the car, softly while she tucked us into to bed, loud and cheerful in the morning to wake up the whole house with the world's most annoying "Oh What A Beautiful Morning!" 

My own early music tastes ran similarly . . . earnest, I guess is the word.  God help me if I didn't love every song our grade school choir teacher made us learn.  I made myself cry over the truly treacly lyrics of "Oh Danny Boy" at age ten.  And that old Mule Sal that helped build the Eerie Canal – a hoot, I tell you what.  But somewhere along the way, I started listening to the radio, buying my own tapes and painstakingly writing out lyrics to Pink Floyd songs on lined notebook paper.  Mix tapes for boyfriends, hours spent flipping through the CD cases at recycled music stores.  And then the live music bug bit me hard.  By the time I was a senior in high school, almost every weekend was devoted to seeking out some show, making pals with some musician in a band.  I liked to talk record label shit and listen to music that began to sound more and more like noise.  Jazz, ska, emo, 4AD, punk, new age – you name it, I studied it like the Rosetta stone.

In retrospect, my delving into music during high school was probably one of those stereotypical identity things you do.  Sonic Youth was no Brigadoon, after all.  And there was something proud about having this totally awesome thing that was all mine and a little foreign and a little anti-intellectual.  Perhaps it should not be a surprise that when I got to Vassar and found an entire student body similarly proud and a little vain about music, dude, I started to lose interest.  It didn't feel as immediate to me anymore, I guess.  Sure, I could work myself into a full blown melancholy listening to Tori Amos on the train ride back to campus after visiting DK in D.C., but my mad acquisition of all things musica tapered off substantially.

Nonetheless, I still find that my mood is kicked up when I listen to my ipod on the way to work, or I push harder on a run when something awesomely bobalicious starts playing (Oh Brit-Brit, why you gotta be such a trainwreck?). And DK will never quite let me forget how I cried when reciting the lyrics to Hearts and Bones to him over dinner years ago.  Paul, my heart, never change.

Sometimes I wish I was a scientist or had even a passing understanding of how the mind works, because music clearly lingers somewhere between the pure emotional center and the intellectual thread of the brain.  I love lyrics, but it's the bumbumbum or piercing voice that makes me a little weak in the knees.

* * *

About three years ago, September 8, 2004 to be exact, my mom's brain aneurysm burst while she was undergoing surgery.  We had been lucky in many ways – first, that she had gotten an MRI done the day before DK and I got back from our honeymoon, and discovered the aneurysm on her brain stem before it burst; second, that she and my dad had the ability and time to get medical opinions from some of the best neurosurgeons in the country, from Stanford to Mayo to Hopkins.  And lastly, that even though most of them told her it was inoperable, she found a doctor in Houston willing to try a risky procedure that was crazy enough to just maybe work.  And it did.  The first time.  On September 7th.  We wrote celebratory messages to our friends and family, cried with relief.  My dad, who hadn't slept in weeks, finally let his shoulders unbunch.  She woke up and mouthed "I love you" to us and spent the night murmuring with my dad, testing herself with memory games and word puzzles, holding hands.

But the next day, after what we had hoped would be a triumphant MRI, the doctor told us that she needed an immediate follow-up surgery, that the coiling hadn't completely stopped the blood flow.  And they wheeled her off, we waited again on the orange and red chairs, tired of feeling so knotted up, tired of the wait for her to be returned to us.  We eyed the hallway anxiously.  Finally, he appeared, still in his scrubs, tired and somber.  It had burst while he was operating.  They didn't know how much blood has leaked into her brain before he could stop it.  She was on a ventilator and he didn't know if she would be able to breathe on her own.  Wait and see, wait and see.

It was a dark moment.  I sat alone in the sunshine outside with my cell phone trying to call DK in New York and crying by the fountain, holding my knees.  Later, I found my dad, ashen, in a little room and he asked me in a shuddering, choking voice if I could do it.  Please. Because he couldn't.  If I could pull back and make the logical decision, if it came to that, to take her off ventilation support if she couldn't breathe on her own again.  Because he knew he wouldn't be able to.  I slowly nodded.

We waited some more.  And thankfully, thankfully, she did start breathing on her own.  We saw her, her head shaved, her skin very pale and tubes and IVs everywhere.  She opened her eyes, though, bright blue, and blinked tears.  She couldn't really talk much, much less form sentences.  She could blow us kisses, over and over again, puckering up her mouth.  And she could respond to very simple commands.  It was hard to see – mom, the English major, the PhD psychologist, without her words.  The doctor explained to us that it was impossible to know how much she would return cognitively, but her early responses were a good sign.  There was more bad to come, a lot more, particularly that first night when we sent my dad to my sister's house to please, please sleep and my older sister and I stood vigil and made truly sick macabre jokes to each other and then an emergency stint needed to be put in and we had to give consent and make phone calls and finally hold each others hand at that horrible sound of a drill.

But a few days after that, when my uncle, her brother, was in town, and my cousin Elizabeth, we all went out to dinner to soberly eat and have some wine, happy that she was alive and there was hope, but so aware of the vulnerability of loss, of what was already irrevocably lost.  Afterward, the whole lot of us went back to the ICU and surrounded her.  She blinked at us, confused, like she was seeing us from under water.  So we just talked to her, about childhood things and the dogs and her friends.  Her eyes went from face to face, nervous, like she knew she was supposed to say something or respond, but couldn't or didn't know how.  We mentioned that time she played Aunt Eller in Oklahoma and Samantha, my younger sister, started to sing, "OOOhhhhk-lohoma!" and, I can't explain it, somewhere a lightbulb went off.  It was like her mind grasped onto that melody and understood it, processed it and she sang –sang! when forming the simplest of responses took minutes -- "Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain" and we all started singing with her, all of us around her bed, softly, "where the waving wheat, can sure smell sweet," and then louder, not caring that it was absurd or too loud or that there were other patients around, "When the wind comes right behind the rain!  Ohhhhhhk-lohoma! Every night my honey lamb and I, sit alone and talk and watch a hawk making lazy circles in the sky."  We finished, joyfully, defiantly, "Oklahoma! OK!" and left her to sleep.

It is one of my most cherished memories. 

It was a tough year.  Very tough couple of months as my dad relentlessly patrolled the hallways of the ICU and kept constant vigil by her monitors, sure something was going wrong, certain that something was missed in her care.  I flew from Houston to my brand new home in New York and started in the new office the next day, flying back as often as I could.  She learned how to walk again, how to feed herself, use the toilet.  Learned to navigate grocery stores and social conversations. We all learned, in fits and starts, alone and as a family, how to mourn and move on.  And god, today, she's doing great, really great.  Yoga and book club and dinners out.  Trips to Hawaii and planning Thanksgiving.  And me, this kid who used to wear stupid t-shirts that said "Nobody Knows I'm Punk Rock" with my doc martins and who idolized Kim Gordon as the most awesome ultra-chick ev-ah, I can't help but think of good ol' Rogers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! as the fiercest, most hard core, rallying song I've ever heard. 

Mucho bettero

No? Is that not the proper Spanish?  Well, I took French for a billion years without much success (my apologies Madam O'Sullivan, it is no reflection on you) -- even going to Paris for a month for an "immersion" hoody back in high school.  While my appalling accent improved marginally, I run out of vocabulary at about the three minute mark.  And anything besides passé compose and maybe future tense (just add a!) and I'm out.  Actually, now that I think about it, I state a lot of things in the present when speaking en française (which . . . isn't so often nowadays).   I eat chicken.  please very much.  Thank you! Also wine, yes yes, two wine.  To drink.  I drink.  He drinks.  because we like.  Very. Thank you!  Yes!

That is how I believe I sound to a French person. 

Have you ever gone onto Babelfish, that altavista thingie, and written in a sentence in English, had it translated to whatever, Portuguese, sent it to a friend (with link to babelfish) and then commenced to have the most bizarre game of ha-ha!-literal-translation-is-silly!  No?  Well, I recommend it. 

I'm late for dinner, so this is just a blatant attempt to post, well, anything, to get rid of grumpy mcgrump-a-lot down there.  DK was sweetness itself and provided hugs and champagne and the soothing dulcet tones of "I have two beautiful girls before me, but only one can go on to become America's. Next. Top. Model."  It's been an insane, insane work month for me -- 230 hours for those who give a fig about such things -- but it's the end of the billing year, one of my huge briefs got filed away and DK is taking me to Perilla to celebrate.  Harold! You old so-and-so!

Anyway, about a billion times better than last week.

But will I be this much of a peach tomorrow?

Wow, I am not in a good way. Everything has been fine dandy until I woke up this morning in a stew of horrible, rotten, no-good very bad mood. I overslept.  I had horrible cramping ouch premonition of period. My hair was annoying. I threw a shaky-shake ball for the cat in a moment of forced gaiety and got scolded by Herr Husband that "it's early still."  I dropped my blackberry on my toe and it made a clatter and got scolded again by Herr Husband "What are you doing out there!"  TOE, jesus gay, toe. 

I don't like my shoes.  Were they always so . . . brown?

I missed my train, I ran around to meetings, I wasn't productive enough. I cried because I thought my plant could be dying.  I forgot to eat lunch. I still hate my hair.

I stopped by a friend's office and she said something vaguely snide about my not responding to one of her three emails requesting comments on a letter. I cried in my office for a while, snuffling into my Hale & Hearty paper napkin at the hurtful wrongness of it all. I wrote a very polite and formal f-you email.  DK called. I got a heaping dose of "tough love."  I apologized to friend. I put a dumb argument into brief and resented in my heart. I read bad case law for thirty minutes. Hair? Hate. DK called and started to play devil's advocate in one of my cases. (Why? WHY?). I felt myself get well pissed that if he loved the plaintiffs so much all of sudden, why didn't he marry them already.

I haven't eaten dinner.  I haven't written my secretary evaluation. I haven't done my time.  I haven't turned in these taxi receipts. I think I may cry again for the hell of it. Am going to retire to bed.