Self-Expression or Self-Absorption?

"I don't know about blogs--sounds like reading someone's diary," my mother wrote in an emailed response to my invitation to check out my latest writing project (a.k.a. my blog).
Actually, I think that's the appeal of many blogs. It's virtual voyeurism. Blogs can also provide reassurance to readers that they're not the only ones stuggling with dirty diaper messes, dieting, haircuts from hell, etc. If you click through the blogs on Google's blogspot, as I've done a few times, you'll find bloggers from all over the world, writing (and in every language from Portugese to Punjabi) about their lives, their struggles, and their dreams. It can be pretty interesting stuff actually. For someone who loves Paris, and hasn't been there in a decade, I was fascinated to read a day-by-day account written by a friend of my husband's while he was attending business school there. His blog provided insights and observations on life in the city that I wouldn't find in a guide book. Of course, not all blogs are so interesting. But you don't have to read all blogs (nor could you, at this point, with the hundreds of thousands that exist these days). Just pick the ones that interest you. I'd be happy--honored, really--if mine made it onto your regular reading list.
Anyway, I think my mom may have been a bit turned off by the Sunday New York Times article about the growing popularity of parental blogging. "For the generation that begat reality television it seems that there is not a tale from the crib (no matter how mundane or scatological) that is unworthy of narration," writes David Hochman. "Today's parents - older, more established and socialized to voicing their emotions - may be uniquely equipped to document their children's' lives, but what they seem most likely to complain and marvel about is their own. The baby blog in many cases is an online shrine to parental self-absorption."
Ouch! So what does that make my blog? An online shrine to marital self-absorption? I'd like to think that my entries are a little less mundane (and definitely less scatological), at least, if for no other reason than the fact that I interact with a lot more people than a baby and a husband on a daily basis. And I live in New York City, which may be many things, but it is not boring.
But I'll let you be the judge. Now I'm off to meet some friends for dinner in Brooklyn Heights.

Speaking Out

Well, I just sent the URL for this 'blog to my parents, sister, and great aunt and uncle (welcome!). True, this site has always been accessible to anyone who happens to stumble across it (though, with a URL like "myupsilamba"--an obscure reference to a made-up word that Nabakov uses in one of his novels--I doubt too many people are going to Google their way here).
"Violin in the Void" is an ode to Vladimir Nabakov as well. In the preface to his "Invitation to a Beheading," he compares his words to the music of a “violin” that fills the “void.” But, he also acknowledges that no matter how beautiful the writing, it can never be as perfect as the ideas it embodies.
I have been a little hesitant to spread the word about my 'blog lest I offend/bore/disappoint anyone with my postings whose opinions and feelings I really care about(not that I don't care about Victor's, but he was the one who encouraged me to start this, so there was no hiding my blog from him even if I'd wanted to). And I wanted to give myself a few weeks to get the gist of this.
I started this 'blog as a means to fulfill one of the New Year's resolutions I made for 2005: to find my literary voice. Yes, I know, I write for a living. But journalists by definition are not encouraged to insert their opinions, or their 'voice,' into their stories. It's impossible, of course, to be completely objective in our coverage. We all approach stories with our own biases. But we are taught to suppress any preconceptions or prejudices we might hold about the subjects on which we write.
Ideally, journalists are taught to learn and write about both sides of an issue and allow the reader to draw his or her own conclusions. Unfortunately, I think that over the years I have become so accustomed to suppressing my personal feelings and opinions about the subjects on which I write, that in some cases, I've discouraged myself from forming (or voicing, at least) any opinions at all. But I've come to realize that being a good journalist doesn't require that you have no personal opinions, only that you are able to maintain an open mind and to keep your personal opinions from unduly influencing the way you cover a story. I also recognize that many of the journalists I admire appear regularly on TV, espousing their own opinions. And those opinions are particularly valued because, it's assumed, they have been drawn from an immense amount of research into the subject on which, these days, reporters are considered "experts" (at least, to TV audiences). I also realize now that even the most widely acknowledged "intellectuals" like the late Susan Sontag were wrong now and then--and admitted as much. Sontag vacillated wildly over the years in her opinions on everything from politics to pop culture. And, while I strongly disagree with some of her positions, I admire her for having the courage to put her opinions out there in the public sphere (and to write intelligent, well thought-out arguments supporting them) even when she knew that many would disagree with her.
So think of this as my first tentative step into the public sphere, alone--not as a journalist, but as myself.

This Space for Sale

Today, a U.S. teenager was sentenced to 18 months in prison for unleashing an Internet worm that crippled 48,000 computers in 2003. The Iraqi government claimed to have captured three top operatives of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's terrorist network, while five U.S. soldiers were killed by bombs planted by other terrorists in Baghdad. And a third columnist admitted to being paid to promote Bush administration policies.
Mike McManus, whose column appears in about 50 newspapers (none of which I read regularly), has admitted to being paid $10,000 to train marriage counselors. Armstrong Williams, a conservative columnist and commentator was the first to admit he'd been paid $240,000 by the Department of Education to promote President Bush's No Child Left Behind law. Then Wednesday, nationally syndicated columnist Maggie Gallagher confirmed she was paid more than $21,000 to advise the Department of Health and Human Services on promoting marriage. And I'm sure we'll hear more admissions in the weeks to come.
It's no secret that publicists send `swag,' along with personal pleas, to writers and editors to try and promote their clients' products and make sure their clients are portrayed positively by the press. I've gotten everything from boxes of cereal and chocolates to body lotions to bottles of wine and vodka. But my publication has a $20 limit on what we can accept. Each December, we hold a holiday sale in our banquet room, offering higher-priced items the editorial staff has received for discounted prices. The profits are donated to charity. I've kept the occasional bottle of wine or box of chocolates, but, under no circumstances, would I--nor could I--accept money from any company or person I write about.
I find it difficult to accept the excuses and explanations Williams and the other columnists/commentators have given for taking what is essentially a bribe. He claims he's a commentator, as if that exempts him from the ethical standards that apply to journalists. But he's a columnist, and while that certainly entitles him to inject more of his personal opinions into his writing, there is a big difference between promoting your own opinions and promoting those of someone who's paying you. By accepting that money, he basically became an employee of the Department of Education, one who was hired specifically to promote the department's controversial policies. It's impossible to believe that $240,000 (an amount that is several times the average salary of a newspaper writer) wouldn't influence a columnist's coverage. If you looked back at Williams' columns or transcripts from TV appearances, I'd bet $240,000 that he stayed 'on message,' parroting whatever the president has said about the NCLB Act.
Unless Williams wants to add a "sponsored by the Department of Education" ad to the top of his column, he ought to return that money. Otherwise, he should get out of the journalism business and parlay his promotional skills into a more lucrative--and more honest--PR job.
It's ironic that he got that money from the Department of Education because his one-sided portrayal of the policies doesn't do much to educate the public about the pros and cons of the administration's education policies. A good teacher--and an honest journalist--offers all sides of an argument and lets the student (or reader) draw their own conclusions. By accepting the bribe, and by refusing to acknowledge the payment for months (and even after the admission, demuring when asked if it might present a conflict of interest), Williams has lost his credibility and perhaps his audience. Let's hope he's learned his lesson.

So How Long Have You Been a Trapeze Artist?

That's the latest addition to my "Top Ten Lines Overheard on the L Train" list. Overheard it tonight on my way home. Unfortunately, I couldn't make out the woman's answer. But, of course, the 20-something hipster couple got off the train at Bedford Avenue, the first stop in Williamsburg--and, as Victor pointed out when I told him about the trapeze line, the closest stop to Galapagos: "art, music, dance, theater and performance space, gallery and bar" and host of the famous "Galapagos Floating Vaudeville Night Tango on a trapeze".
Only in Williamsburg.
Me? I was on my way home from a dinner and a movie with my married friend Jen. We'd seen "Ray," the Ray Charles bio-pic. It was good, but dragged on a bit too long, particularly since we'd skipped dinner to catch the 6:40 show. Then we had pseudo-panini sandwiches and tea at a Cosi down the street (I was feeling too cold, hungry, and cheap to venture much further). And I was home by 10:45 pm. And sober--unlike just about everyone else as on the L train with me.

I Have Seven Minutes to Write This

Before I have to do an interview for work. But I think this will be a good test of my typing skills (and ability to come up with something good to write about, quickly). So, here's what's going on in NYC, or in my head at least, today.
It's damn cold (and dropping to 15 degrees tonight). There are still piles of dirty snow on the streets and sidewalks. And I was late to work because the subway line I usually take is operating at a fraction of its normal capacity thanks to a homeless man's attempts to keep warm by lighting a fire in--of all places--a subway signal-relay room built during the Depression and apparently not upgraded since. Needless to say the fire knocked out SIX HUNDRED relay signals, and service on the C train for at least 6-9 months. And the A "express" train that I can also take to work will only be operating at one-third its normal capacity for at least the next week or two. Initially, the MTA said it would take three to five YEARS to get the A and C trains back in service. But, after the dailies called for the resignation of both the head of the MTA (Lawrence Reuter) and Mayor Mike Bloomberg in ensuing editorials, the MTA, um, re-assessed the timeline.
Still, it's pretty scary to think that a single room that controls at least two major subway lines used by nearly 600,000 people daily could be entered--and destroyed--that easily. If a homeless man who was only seeking solace from the frigid temps outside can do that much damage unintentionally, just think what a terrorist seeking to wreak some real havoc could do.
Oops -- outta time..

While You Were Out...

While I was in Berwyn, Ill., drinking Leinenkugel, cooing over my new niece, and playing board games with my sister and brother-in-law, my close friend from college dropped out of AA and started drinking again. And my best friend in New York wrecked two cars.
Of course both of them swear they're okay, and blame extenuating circumstances--or, in S.'s case, a mystery grey-haired woman who ran a light then took off after she plowed into S.'s SUV and some guy who was driving way too fast in a blizzard and rear-ended her rental car three days later (he actually stuck around and was rewarded with a citation for 'reckless endangerment').
I'm inclined to believe both my friends. For one thing, S. would tell me if she was at fault--just as she did when she hit a car one week into her new job as a pharmaceutical sales rep and called me in hysterics because she feared she was about to lose her new car and her new job. (Note: In fact, not only did she not lose her job or car, but she got a date--and later a marriage proposal--from the cop who showed up to write the accident report).
And I know that my college friend--we'll call her A.--will be okay. Because, somehow, she is always okay. And her life has been a series of extenuating circumstances, so I feel more pity than anger at her occasional lapses in judgment (and now, sobriety). I am angry only because she made her drinking my problem and another friend of mine's problem too (who extended a visit to accompany her to an alcohol treatment center). She convinced us that she was an alcoholic--and I blamed myself for not picking up on the signs 10 years earlier when we were roommates after college. I sent her cards praising her for acknowledging and dealing with the drinking and underlying issues that had plagued her for years; and I spent hours on the phone with her, encouraging and supporting her. And she convinced me--well, all of us--that she was committed to staying sober and getting back into shape. She was even going to enter a bodybuilding competition. A couple weeks ago, she joked about 'upgrading' to an AA group across the bay, and finding herself a wealthy--and sober--lawyer or dot-com multi-millionaire. Then she sends me an email message last week extolling the 'crazy' time she had when her high school friend came to visit, and how a wealthy rancher plied her with drinks on their second date.
Meanwhile, my best friend in New York was lying in a hospital bed with monitors wired to her belly to make sure the 5-month old fetus ("jelly bean," she calls her) had survived the second car crash. And S. hadn't called me in Chicago because she didn't want to "worry" me, she wanted me to enjoy my time with my niece. Her SUV is still in the shop. Enterprise has informed her that it must complete an investigation of the second accident before it will issue her another rental. And she got an email this morning warning her and her colleagues that her company may have to lay off some of the sales staff. But the doctors said she survived the crashes intact--if a little shaken (and wary of getting behind the wheel again this winter). And her husband and her little bean are okay. And so I know she will be okay too.

Home Sweet Home

How I know I'm home:
My seatmate and I exhange smiles at the sight of the Manhattan skyline through the airplane window--and a sense of calm immediately washes over me, temporarily displacing the nausea that overtook me as we began our bumpy descent. When we land, and all the passengers around me instinctively reach for their cellphones, I overhear one-sided conversations in at least three different languages. We arrive at the gate 12 minutes early--even though New York got more than a foot of snow in the previous 24 hours, and the blizzard alert was only lifted 3 hours before we landed. As I walk to the baggage claim area, I glance out the window and see where all the snow has gone: snow plows have created a mountain of snow at least 25 feet high outside the terminal entrance. But there is no snow on the runways, nor did I see any from my airplane window when we reached the gate.
(Meanwhile, at Chicago's O'Hare Aiport, where the snow stopped falling 20 hours before my flight would have left--had I been departing from O'Hare instead of Midway--at least half the flights were cancelled and I'd bet the other half were delayed).
The temperature outside is 15 degrees fahrenheit (feels like 0 degrees, with the wind chill factor) and the line for the taxis is at least 80-deep--and I don't mind. I am so happy to see the familiar yellow cabs and the transit cops with their thick Bronx accents and heavy jackets yelling at cabs and other vehicles to "Move along!" that I don't even notice how cold it is until I try to tell the cab driver where I'm going and realize my lips are numb.
I give my African cab driver directions in French--and a $4.50 tip (on a $16.50 cab fare) since he got me home in 16 minutes and carried my luggage to the sidewalk.
My husband opens the front door to our apartment before I can even put my key in the lock. And tells me "Welcome home--I missed you." Then kisses me before I can tell him how much I missed him too.
It's good to be home.

For Love or Money

The snow has stopped. And my brother-in-law has gone to the grocery store to pick up dinner and beer. My sister and I just finished watching "Sense and Sensibility", a 1995 adaptation of Jane Austen's book directed by Ang Lee (of "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon" fame). Austen wrote the book in the 1790s, though I understand it wasn't published until 1810. Strange to think that just 200 years ago women (of a certain class, at least) seemed to do little more than find ways to pass the time until a wealthy suitor came along. All their efforts seemed aimed at making them an attractive prospect, not accomplished women in their own right. (Of course, this still holds true in some circles).
In this world that Austen writes about, women's lives revolve around the men they hope to marry. And they aren't permitted to earn their own living, but must rely on the kindness of strangers, the inheritances of wealthy (male) relatives, or allowances from their husbands. And even a woman with good looks, personality and intelligence may lure a man only to lose him if she doesn't have a dowry as well. I'm glad we live in a time when women do not depend on men to earn a living, and so are free to marry for love. (Though I'm sensible enough to know that money still matters more than love for some--I'm just happy to know that I can earn both).

Oh, and the President Started his Second Term

I think my husband summed it up best:
Oh, Thursday there was some inauguration thing in Washington. I tried hard to ignore it, but I am very afraid for the future of our country and the world.
Make that 'we.'

White Out

The snow started falling last night around dinnertime, and didn't stop. I woke up this morning to the sound of a neighbor's snowblower cutting through the yard between our houses. We got an estimated 10 inches of snow last night. It's now a little after 11 a.m. (Chicago time) and the snow is still falling. The Chicago area is supposed to get another 4 to 8 inches of the white stuff before it stops. I had plans to meet up with a friend of mine, Denise, who lives in Lakeview, in the northeast corner of the city (and a drive of about 45 minutes to an hour from Berwyn, which is a suburb west of the city, under the best weather and traffic conditions). But I'd be content to stay indoors all day instead, playing cards and eating thawed out corn bread with my sister and brother-in-law, and taking turns holding and changing the baby. My sister's home is on the corner, and I watched from the front window this morning as a neighbor tried to navigate the turn in his Buick sedan. The car kept turning until the wheels nudged up against the bank of snow that a city streetcleaner had pushed to the edge of my sister's lawn. And I thought, I couldn't ask my sister to drive in this--even just to the train station--especially with the baby in back. And the snow still coming down.
At least the snow is expected to stop by tomorrow. My flight leaves in the afternoon. I hope the snow has stopped falling in New York by then too. The blizzard we had last night reportedly moved into New York City late this morning, and it's supposed to stay there for the next 24 hours.

An Unfamiliar Place

Slept for 10 hours last night. But I woke up with a raging headache, and after only one beer last night. Dreamt that a close friend betrayed me, and another one turned to crime (highly unlikely, in either case, since the first is my closest friend and has never given me any reason to distrust her and the second is married and a mother of 2 and has never done anything more criminal than underage drinking). But I have these dreams sometimes (involving people I think I know doing things that are totally out of character) when I've been away from home for a few days. Especially when I'm in an unfamiliar place.
And I am definitely in unfamiliar territory. Here, our days are structured around the ever-changing feeding and sleeping needs of a 7-pound, 2-week old baby. We are a drive (and an hour-long process involving the folding and unfolding of the stroller, the procurement and adjustment of several blankets, and the strapping in of the baby and the car seat) away from a latte, a bookstore, a deli--even a convenience store.
We're surrounded by variations of my sister's 80-year-old house (which is easily three times as big as my apartment in New York--and she owns it). We are a good 30 to 45-minute drive away from the city of Chicago--and a 15-minute drive to the train station. My 'gym' consists of a stair climber in the (furnished) basement that my sister and her husband ordered off a late-night infomercial.
At night, we order submarine sandwiches or Thai food and watch television and play board games. In the mornings, my sister and I sit around in sweats, eating toasted Lender's bagels from a plastic bag.
When I told my sister, an Ivy League grad with a medical degree, that I was writing a blog, she looked at me quizzically and asked: "A what?" My brother-in-law had no idea that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt were married, much less separated. When I pointed to the headline in the Tribune's Tempo section on the rumors that the couple split in part because Pitt wanted to be a father but Aniston wanted to focus on her career, he said "Who cares?" and pulled out the sports section.
The furniture in the dining and living room are covered with dog hair (their one-and-a-half-year-old dog is only allowed to put her front legs up on the couch, but she's got some long legs). And there are dog toys and baby-related paraphenalia--baby books, blankets, breast pump, and bath--wherever you look. It's easy to lose track of time between the feeding, bathing, and changing of the baby.
Their lives these days involve the baby, the dog, and each other (not necessarily in that order). And there is not room for much more (except for my brother-in-law's job, which takes him away from home from dawn until dinnertime).
My life in NYC revolves around my husband, my career, my friends, and my city--probably in that order, though work occasionally gets in the way of my other priorities. For the most part, though, I have control over how and where I spend most of my days. We're mobile and we're out most of the day--even on weekends.
Mobility, control, a social life, and a career--how much will we have (or want) to give up when we have a baby?

On The Road Again

Have you ever asked yourself, as you're driving down the highway toward your destination: What if I just kept going?
On Tuesday, as I drove down the New Jersey Turnpike on my way from New York to central Pennsylvania, with the warm air blowing from the vents and the sun reflecting off the dashboard, I thought: I could just keep driving south all the way to Florida. I could just keep driving until I've left the bad weather (it was 15 degrees in Manhattan) and the debts and all the clutter I've accumulated during my 30+ years on this earth behind me. I could start all over again. But, of course, I can't--not really. And, really, I wouldn't want to leave everything else behind--certainly not my husband (though I would really love to leave that debt behind somewhere far, far away).
Still, for those 2 hours that I was on the road, there was no boss hovering, no deadline looming, no phone ringing (I'd shut off my cell). It was just me and my music and the highway stretched out before me. And it was wonderful.
Now I'm in Chicago, visiting my sister (and my nearly 2-week old niece). And she needs to use the computer. More soon.

What $1 Million Might Get You in Manhattan

Woke up this morning at 8:28am, and I couldn't go back to sleep. It's MLK Day, and Victor and I are both off today (I'm actually off all week--I'm heading to Philly with a friend tomorrow and then to Chicago on Wednesday to meet my new niece). After lying in bed for 10 or 15 minutes, I got up finally and showered. I looked out the window to see if it had snowed. There was a light dusting on the concrete space that serves as an urban garden and separates our rear apartment and our landlords' apartment. (The plants, which are restricted to concrete planters decorated by our landlord with stones or ceramic tiles or a variety of other objects--from a plastic Statue of Liberty to a portrait of the Virgin Mary--have been covered with plastic or moved into the basement for the winter). Snowflakes still swirled in the air outside my 2nd-floor window, but I think they were only stirred up by the wind. I flipped on NY1 to check the forecast, while I was making coffee (we hadn't put the heat on downstairs and it was so cold I wore sweats--the thermometer on the wall showed it was in the 50s inside).
Temps are supposed to fall into the teens tonight. It feels like winter finally, and I'm already ready for spring.
Over brunch yesterday at Home, in the West Village, my friend, S., a single (widowed) mother of an 11-year-old boy, told me she has been looking at apartments to buy. She's been renting a spacious, 2-bedroom ground floor apartment in a doorman building in Battery Park. For two years, $500 of her monthly rent was subsidized by the government, part of a plan to get New Yorkers to live near Ground Zero after the 9/11 attacks (her apartment building is across West Side Highway from the site of the WTC). But the subsidies have stopped now and her rent went up another $100 a month this year, so she's ready to move. That, and her son attends a private school in Gramercy Park, across town and up about 30 blocks, and the school bus will stop picking him up after this school year. So she wants to move to Chelsea, which would keep her close to work, and her son a crosstown bus ride away from school. She thought she had a decent chunk of change saved for a down payment, but the apartments she's seen so far were much smaller and older than she'd imagined, she told me. I'm not surprised--nor am I looking forward to the day when Victor and I start looking for a place to buy. It's now nearly impossible to find a one-bedroom apartment--not to mention a 2-bedroom--in Manhattan (well, anywhere below 100th Street, at least) for less than $800,000 these days. The average price of a Manhattan apartment breached $1 million last year. And there's no indication that Manhattan real estate prices are going to come down anytime soon.
We're holding onto our place, which we rent, as long as we can. If our landlord and landlady would sell it to us, I'd buy it in an instant. Though I don't think we could afford it now (not if they charge market rates anyway--prices in Williamsburg have shot up, as well, since I moved in with Victor four and a half years ago).
It's daunting really. I can't imagine leaving NYC. But our friends have been moving further and further from Manhattan as they've gotten married and/or pregnant; well, with the sole exception of one friend, whose new husband does M&As on Wall Street. They moved into a 2-bedroom apartment last summer in one of Trump's new buildings on the Upper West Side, complete with four concierges, celebrity tenants like Kristen Chenoweth and Kathleen Turner, and monthly maintenance fees that are comparable, if not more than, what my husband and I pay in rent each month. For us to afford a place like that anytime soon, we'd need to either sell a book (or our first-born), win a lottery, or switch careers. Now there's an incentive to start that book.

Out of the Mountain of Despair, a Stone of Hope

It being MLK Day and all, I felt a little guilty about devoting most of the day's earlier posting to the winter weather and the exhorbitant cost of living in Manhattan.
So I thought I'd dedicate this posting to the man for whom this holiday is named.
It's hard for someone who was born white, and who was born four years after Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, to fully appreciate his contributions. But as a woman, and one whose grandfather emigrated to the U.S. from Ireland just 50 years after the stroefronts in my city had removed their "No Irish Need Apply" signs, I can appreciate the sacrifices that our forefathers (and foremothers) made so that I may enjoy the freedom and opportunities I have today.
Just 36 years after Martin Luther King was killed, two African-Americans--one of them a women--were among the candidates for the Democratic nominee for U.S. president this year. Of course, there was little chance that either of them would win (and, in fairness, Carol Moseley Braun wasn't the first black woman to make a run for the presidency--Shirley Chisolm, who died earlier this month at 80, ran for president in 1972). But I strongly believe that I will live to see an African American and a woman--and I don't mean a First Lady--in the White House.
And, for that--among many other gifts (like the fact that most of my peers and I can't even imagine living in a country segregated by race or religion)--we have civil rights activists like Martin Luther King Jr. to thank.
It's hard to believe that he received the Nobel Peace Prize at 35 (the youngest man ever to have won the prize). It may be even harder for some to conceive that, when he was notified of his selection, Martin Luther King announced that he would turn over all the prize money (then $54,123) to the advancement of the civil rights movement.
He was assassinated three years later.
In 1963, Martin Luther King delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. I reread it tonight. It's beautifully written. And prophetic.
"I have a dream," he said, "that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character."
I'd like to think that day is now. But is it? Have we just substituted Arabs for African-Americans in post-9/11 America? I hope not.

Try This on for Size

My husband is cooking dinner for us: roasted chicken with onions, steamed veggies, and garlic bread. He's an excellent cook. We both cook occasionally on weekends, though I think I definitely owe him a few more dinners. Anyway, he's told me I've got five more minutes. Just enough time, I hope, to add a few more thoughts on an earlier post: The Importance of Shopping Around.
What I forgot to mention then was that it's also important to try things on--whether it's a job or a jacket or a man. The process of elimination is an integral part of figuring out who you are and what you want.
It's much easier to identify what you don't like than what you like about a job (the long hours, the bad pay, the tedious work), a man (he snores, he swears, he spits when he talks) or a shirt (wrong color, itchy fabric, unflattering shape). When I look back at some of the guys I've dated, I sometimes think, what a waste of time! But I learned something from each of those relationships--about what I like and don't like, what's negotiable and what's not, and what qualities are most important to me. The night before my husband and I went on our first date, I was on the phone complaining to a friend about the guys I'd been dating. She suggested that I write down those qualities that are most important to me in a man. So I did. And--I know this is going to sound cheesey--but the next night, as Victor was talking to me over sushi and sake at Ave A Sushi, I was going through my list mentally: "check, check, check..." The next day, I called my friend back and told her: "I think I found The One." Four years and three and a half months later, Victor and I were married.
Speaking of which, my lovely husband just called up from downstairs. Dinner is served.

A Change of Scenery

Saturday Part 2:
My husband and I also took the train to Maplewood, N.J., yesterday, where my stepbrother, Jay, lives. It's the first time I'd gone to visit him since I moved to NYC at the end of 1999. It's been much easier to convince him to come into The City than to convince me to go to suburban New Jersey. But I figured a visit was well overdue. And Maplewood is much closer--geographically, at least--to NY than I'd thought (about 35 minutes from Penn Station). It was a nice change of pace and scenery for a Saturday afternoon.
We were out there ostensibly to see a showing of Jay's paintings and watercolors at a local gallery housed in a framing shop, but we spent twice as long at a nearby brew pub drinking beers (my favorite was Satan Claws--with an alcohol content of 9%, it was a relative bargain), and playing foosball (Jay's friend Ingrid and I kicked the boys' butts) and a tabletop version of shuffleboard (I didn't fare as well at that).
But don't get me wrong. I really enjoyed Jay's artwork. Initially, I thought his style seemed similar to that of Mark Rothko, though Jay thinks of himself as an abstract landscape artist while Rothko was an abstract expressionist. But after consulting "The 20th Century ArtBook" today, I've decided that Jay's work is more akin to that of the abstract painter whose work influenced (and who befriended) Rothko: Milton Avery. Avery organized his canvas into horizontal bands of layered color, as my stepbrother does. And, like Jay, he takes recognizable images (or landscapes) and dissolves thme into shapes and shadows set off by washes of color.
When it comes to abstract painters, I usually prefer Arshile Gorky or Gerhard Richter (Richter's paintings are among my favorites, though I don't really care for his intentionally fuzzy photographs) because their paintings are less structured and compartmentalized, with the colors spilling into each other and swirling all over the canvas. They are dreamy and emotional and messy. And I see and feel something different each time I look at them.
But I really liked some of Jay's paintings, particularly those he did on the coast of Newfoundland this summer. He slathered oil paint onto wooden boards then scrubbed away the layers until, as he says, "the painting reflects what I see and experience." The process gives the paintings such depth and texture. This is one of my favorites: http://www.jtorson.com/jtpaintingsnew/pages/jt4.htm
Look through the rest. You can judge for yourself who has influenced his work. I just hope that NYC will be as receptive to Jay's paintings now as it was to Avery's and Rothko's in the last century--and that's not just because I'm interested in the resale value of the painting Jay offered to give us as a wedding present.

Why It Pays to Persist

Yesterday I was in the locker room at the gym when I noticed a woman bent over on one of the benches that face the lockers. Her back was to me, but I could tell that she was crying from the way she shook. I didn't know her, but I recognized her as a regular from her bandana (there's only one woman I've seen there who wears a bandana tied around her head when she works out).
She was talking on her cell phone loud enough that I couldn't help but overhear her (why do people engage in such private conversations on on their cell phones in such public places?). Still, I had to fight the urge not to get involved. The reasons for her tears would be familiar to so many people who have moved to NYC with dreams and idealism but without a lot of money. "I have to move out. I just can't afford this place anymore but everybody's saying to me that I can't just give two week's notice," she said into her phone.
I'm not sure how her confidante responded. She mumbled something. Then the tears started again. "I know I need to find a new job. It's not what I want to do. It's not what I thought I'd be doing," she said (or something to that effect).
More mumbling, and then: "I went to this play with Sophie last night. And it was just so --(sniff) -- good. Y'know. So good. And it made me feel so dumb. It was this historical play--it covered so much. And I didn't understand half of it. And I felt so dumb and I thought, how do they know all this? How am I going to make it if I can't even understand this? I mean I read but I'm not well-read."
(Pause) Then sobs.
I had to bite my tongue. I wanted to tell her that so many people pretend to know more than they actually do. They just fake--or Google--it. That playwrights do research before they create their plays--that very few people have all that knowledge stored up, and ready to download at a moment's notice(and most of those people, while impressive, can be annoying as hell). Besides, what she may lack in analytical or recall abilities, she probably makes up for in creativity (judging by the outfits whe wears, I'd say she has it in abundance). I wanted to tell her: Don't Give Up.
But instead I went upstairs and got onto one of the elliptical machines for 40 minutes, and read about "the elusive genius" and animated filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki (best know for "Spirited Away," Japan's highest grossing movie ever) in the latest issue of the New Yorker. Miyazaki, who creates fantastical worlds inhabited by wide-eyed children with spunk and a sense of humor, exhibits a lot more optimism in his films than he does in person, according to the author, Margaret Talbot. It's ironic, but his films are both a response to, and an example of, what he sees as the dangers of modern Japanese life. He thinks children are too caught up in virtuality--between video games and DVDs and the Internet--and are at risk of losing touch with their actual environment (a process not helped by adults who have paved over parks to build high-rises and relegated their gardens to the rooftops). He has advised that parents not let their children view his films more than once a year. And, in an effort to encourage children to use their senses of touch, smell and taste--senses he thinks are neglected in a world that focuses on visual and aural stimulation--he has built a very hands-on museum that includes physical replications of some of the characters and creatures from his animated films.
As he's quoted as saying at the end of the piece: "I don't want to transfer my pessisim onto children. I keep it at bay. I don't believe that adults should impose their vison of the world on children. Children are very capable of forming their own visions."
Ironic, I thought, because that is exactly what he does with his films--although he might argue that he is only sharing his vision of alternate realities, not imposing them. (And, to his credit, his worlds are more apt to inspire children to trust their imaginations than to rely on their parents' views of the world).
Miyazaki, by the way, did not achieve fame right away--despite his focus and his work habits (he often worked from early morning until after midnight and didn't take vacation--much to the chagrin of his wife and two sons, one of whom recalled, sadly, "It was very rare for me to see him"). He was in his late 30s before he got his first directing credit. And the studio he co-founded didn't have its first hit ("Kiki's Delivery Service") until he was 48. But he didn't give up.

Too Close for Comfort

It's 10:18p.m. on a Friday night and I'm home alone (a rare occurence), watching an interview with the artist Chuck Close on a PBS show, "New York Voices." My husband is having beers with a couple of his friends. I didn't make plans because, well, I hardly ever make plans on Friday nights anymore because I never know how late I'm going to be stuck at work. Tonight, I got out at 7:30. But last week, I think it was 9:30. And I've been at work as late as 2 a.m. Saturday next morning. We close on Fridays and as a writer, when I leave depends entirely on when the three editors and the page designer sign off on my work. Even when I write for the web, I have to wait around until my editor--and then a copy editor--read my story. Of course, I'm glad we have such a vetting process. But it can be frustrating on a Friday night, when you have friends from out of town visiting (as was the case when I was at the office until 2a.m.) or a holiday party to attend (as I did in December, when I was stuck at work for 2 hours longer than I'd anticipated so we arrived at the party an hour later than we'd intended) or plans with friends (who are reluctant these days to ever make a firm plan with me on a Friday). But my friends understand my work obligations, and it's no big deal to arrive late to a party (who wants to be the first to show up anyway?). But a child doesn't understand work obligations or late arrivals. That's what I worry about.
Still, I'm getting ahead of myself. And tonight, I'll admit it is nice just to have an evening at home to relax.
I've only caught snippets of the interview with Chuck Close. What interested me most was the reaction he said his subjects had when they saw their portraits--oversized close-ups of their faces. Most of them, he said, couldn't take it. They immediately went off and altered their appearance--dying or cutting their hair, or shaving off their beard. They sometimes avoided looking at their portrait. Even when he talked about his self-portraits (for which he's most famous), I noticed he refered to the subject as "he" instead of "me."
At the end of the interview, the host Rafael Pi Roman asked Close what he thought his legacy would be. This is what he said (I typed as he spoke). I thought it was an interesting response. "No one ever knows whether your work is going to have urgency in other times," he said. "You know where you stack up in the horizontal; you know where you stack up now. But you don't know how your work is going to stack up in the vertical--50 or 100 years from now."
Interesting to think of all the art that may build on his in the future, all the future generations of artists who may be influenced by him. Will anyone be influenced by my work?

The Importance of Shopping Around

Last night, while we were shopping on Fifth Avenue, my friend Joy said to me that she'd been trying to figure out exactly what it is she likes so much about the guy she's dating. Her mom had asked her the question earlier and she'd struggled for a response, and this had concerned her--at least initially. But after she'd thought it over, she told me, she concluded that what she liked most about being with him was how he made her feel. She felt good when she was with him, and less good without him.
I thought that was a pretty good criteria for deciding whether to pursue a relationship with someone (or even a second date). Of course, you can argue that alcoholics say the same thing about drinking. But there's a big difference. Alcohol makes people feel good by lowering their inhibitions and helping them to escape themselves or their current situation. It also makes people act differently than they would ordinarily. (How many times have you blamed bad behavior or bad decisions on alcohol?)
But a boyfriend, or a husband, should make you feel good by embracing you as you are and by encouraging you to share more of yourself (not hide it). You feel good around a boyfriend (or husband) when you feel like you can be yourself. When you're with him, it just feels right.
My husband loves me most (so he tells me--repeatedly) when I'm wearing glasses and not wearing make-up--when I'm in my most natural state. He loves me for who I am, not who I aspire to be. Though I still have aspirations, his validation and support helps me appreciate what I have achieved already. And that makes me feel really good.
Lesson #2. Joy, who is job searching, also mentioned that she has come to realize what she really wants in her next job (and in her career). And she's stopped applying for any job that doesn't get her really excited--even if she knows she stands a really good chance at getting it. That got me thinking about the importance of shopping around and not settling for something that doesn't feel right--whether that be a man, a job, or a new blazer.
Last night, after hitting five stores in two hours, Joy and I ended up buying the exact same pink blazer from Searle. We tried on many things, but I was proud that we didn't buy anything that we weren't "This-is-SO-me!" excited about.
Here's hoping we will both be able to say the same thing about our jobs soon.

Spanglish Lessons

A day late (again), despite my best efforts. I had no break at work yesterday and went out to see "Spanglish" with a friend last night, then I came home to find my husband working on the computer to update and send out his resume for a freelance job at an investment bank. So I'm trying to get in a post early today (well, relatively).
I've been mulling over themes: "Newly Married in NYC," "Musings on Manhattan (and the Brooklyn borough)," "Observations from the Brink of Adulthood" or "The Fabulous Girls Guide to Family Life."
I think #1 might be too restrictive--after all, I only qualify for "newly married" for so long (and it's already been more than 6 months). You could argue the same thing about #3--I can only postpone adulthood, and all the responsibilities that come with it, for so long. It is already sneaking up on me. Still, #4 might be a bit premature (as I am not even pregnant, nor trying yet)--not to mention presumptious.
So how about #2 from a #3 point of view?
And now, about last night (which, appropriately enough, was a 1980s film[http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090583/plotsummary] --(Ed note: sorry having trouble inserting links, but I'll fix later)-- about the transition from singlehood to adulthood)...
So I met my friend, Stacie, who is newly married and 5+ months pregnant, to see a 7pm screening of "Spanglish." Mid-week movies have replaced late-night, bar-hopping now that we have husbands and increasingly demanding jobs--and, in her case, a baby on the way. Instead of treating ourselves to $12 Metropolitans [http://www.digitalbartender.com/mixed-drink/mixed_drinks/Metropolitan] or vodka gimlets, we indulged in a large carton of popcorn (no butter or salt) and Milky Way "Poppers," and joked about which dietary requirements for pregnant women [http://scc.uchicago.edu/nutritionpregant.htm] "Poppers" might
qualify for -- there is milk in Milky Way, after all [http://www.mmmars.com/cai/mway/faq.html].
"Spanglish" was much better than I expected. Though the plot is predictable, by telling it from the perspective of the Mexican domestic's daughter (through an application essay to Princeton), the movie takes on another, far more interesting dimension. Though it still raises questions about class and cultural clashes, the film is ultimately about the relationship between the Mexican immigrant, Flor (played by Paz Vega), and her daughter (Shelbie Bruce). Flor is torn between her desire to give her daughter more opportunities than she had and to provide a better life for her in the U.S., and to retain in her daughter a sense of pride in her heritage. The other characters in the movie identify themselves in several ways: Adam Sandler's character is a father, a famous chef, and a husband; Tea Leoni's is as an angry daughter, an apologetic adulterer, and a former working woman who is struggling mightily in her three-month-old phase as a "stay-at-home mom."
But Flor is a mom, first and foremost (it helps that she is a single mom). There is one scene in the movie in particular that struck me (spoiler alert). When Flor and John (Adam Sandler) come close to giving in to their obvious feelings for each other and she says, "When there is a daughter involved, you cannot make such mistakes." Flor allows herself a kiss and a few bites of a meal that the 4-star chef has cooked for her in his restaurant, but she doesn't finish the meal nor act on her feelings (despite the obvious pleasure she gets from his cuisine and his kiss).
I thought about that scene on the way home. Initially, it might seem like Flor was giving something up for her daughter--that she might be giving up a chance at real love and happiness, not to mention an upper-class existence. But her daughter was only serving as a moral compass for her. The thought of how their affair might affect their children helped her make the right decision.
Now, don't get the wrong idea. I have no plans (nor any desire) to cheat on my husband. But the film made me realize that, while we can get away with selfish, self-indulgent behaviour as singles, it is much harder to do so once we have a family. And that is a good thing.
Not that there is anything wrong with indulging in the occasional cocktail (except for the outrageous price, which can be as much as $15 at some Manhattan night spots). But now I'm starting to question whether that $18 (including tip) might be better spent toward paying down my credit card debt, or investing in a Roth IRA. And buying that camel-hair coat I want--really want--is that much harder to justify.
What marriage does (or should do) is make you less selfish. And having a family should continue that process. In the end, of course, you should be a better person for it. Otherwise, you fight it all the way, and end up like Tea Leoni's character: resentful, repressed, and unhappy (not to mention, a failure as a mother and a wife). Though there is a happy ending (or an awakening, at least) for her too, which I won't spoil. a

I need a theme

I realize that now--especially after rereading my last few posts. So, apologies in advance, to anyone who's stumbled onto this 'blog and tried to figure out what it's about. We're still in the early stages here. We're not even in the "beta test" phase (in tech speak)and nowhere near going live (well, okay, technically I am live--but don't let that get out just yet).
This really began as a simple experiment to see 1. If I can commit to writing something daily (or near-daily) that I'm not getting paid for, 2. If I can figure out what topic I care enough about to write about nearly every day, 3. If I can make it interesting enough so that other readers might care about it too.
So, in the interest of research, let's look at what I've covered so far: my husband, my consumption of a large slice of chocolate cake, my sister's new baby, my best friend's pregnancy, my (belated) New Years resolution, and my grumbling stomach.
Well, it's still early.

My stomach is grumbling...

It's 2 o'clock and I haven't had lunch yet (just had "breakfast" -- a.k.a. a banana and the remainder of my coffee -- an hour ago). It's been crazy. Once I start reporting on stories, I can get so caught up in the work that I forget what time it is (lunchtime) until my friends--or my stomach--remind me. I actually prefer those days. It beats the alternative: sitting around on my butt, waiting for call backs (or for the motivation to start making calls).
Anyway, I figured I'd sneak in a quick post before I head out to grab lunch with my husband (pick up lunch, at least--we never have time to sit down and eat it together).
It's snowing outside, but just barely. The flakes aren't sticking to the ground. Tomorrow, the temperature is supposed to reach 55-60 degrees. I'm not complaining, but those kind of temps seem a little freaky for early January in the Northeast. Makes me worry that this is just evidence of global warming (and man's tinkering with Mother Nature) and that we'll have to pay for it eventually. It's hardly even snowed this season. Maybe 3 inches, tops, since winter started (and none this month). Last year, at this time, I think we'd had triple that. The average snowfall for January in NYC is 7 inches. I just hope we don't get that all at once.

If I can make it here...

A little more on this New Year's Resolution and why I moved to (and love) NYC. In a city as a big and diverse as NYC, the only way to stand out is to figure out what makes you different from the other 7,999,999 people who live here, and to exploit it to the fullest! Standing out is the only way to find success here. If you don't speak up here, you won't be heard at all.
New York City --unlike most of the places I'd lived in before (Dallas, Texas; Moraga, Calif.; North Andover, Mass.; and Scottsdale, Ariz.)--not only encourages its residents to embrace their individuality, but it mandates that they do so if they want to succeed in their profession. If you look at anyone who's succeeded in NYC, they've distinguished themselves in some way. Maybe its through their unique talents or their sheer ambition (one word: Trump) or just their abilities to self-promote (and many times, it's a combo of all three). I know I've got at least one of those three. This year, I'm working on the other two.

My New Years Resolution

My husband is cooking grilled chicken with Italian seasonings and garlic bread (he just brought up a small plate of bread to tide me over). He's told me to "blog fast because dinner is almost ready." So I'll type fast.
On New Years Day 2004, I made a resolution to write every day and to finish a short story and book proposal. Needless to say, I fell a bit short on all three. I managed to write in my journal a few times a week. I started 3-4 short stories. And I came up with a book idea. But I never finished any of my stories, nor did I write up a book proposal (or write every day). I didn't fulfill my goals.
This year, I've tried a different approach. I realized last year that without fulfilling this 'resolution,' I wouldn't be able to reach my other goals. This year I want to find my voice (hence, the title of this blog). So I started this blog as a means to do that. It's not a typical blog. There aren't many links. I don't have a single subject on which I write (unlike my husband, who writes about life in New York; or my foodie friend, aka VittlesVamp, or my freelancing friend, Noah, who blogs about defense technology).
But I hope that will change by the end of this year. I look at it this way. When I first went into journalism in the mid-1990s, I was a general assignment ("GA") reporter, meaning I covered everything from city council meetings to school funding inequities to spousal abuse. It took me a half-dozen years or more to figure out which stories I most enjoyed writing (typically they fall into one of these categories: health, arts, lifestyle trends, or consumer issues). I still haven't found my niche in journalism. And I'm still searching for my 'voice' as a fiction writer.
So my hope is that, if I write every day (or nearly every day) in this space--thanks to the total lack of restraints that come with it--I will eventually discern a pattern in my writing and a tendency to write about certain topics. And that will help me figure out what it is I'm meant to write about. Where my talents and interests converge.
I realize that finding my voice (or "unique personal significance," as Stephen Covey writes about in "The 8th Habit," which I had to read and review for work) is not the same as finding my niche at work. But there are similarities. As I write, and review my postings, I hope that the answers to both will emerge.
One reason I moved to NYC was to escape the stereotypes that had followed me throughout my suburban existence. When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents had a tendency to describe me as the "social sister" (while my sister was the "smart one"). And I did my best (perhaps, subconsciously) to live up to that label. It wasn't my parents' fault. They were just observant. It was more important to me to be in the 'in' crowd than in the National Honor Society in high school. I pledged a sorority my first semester in college, and got the lowest GPA of my college career. It took me several more years to realize I could be both social and smart. And when I look back now, I realize I was. I was the highest ranked girl in my grade in high school. I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed." I graduated Magna Cum Laude with honors from college.
But it is only now -- ten years after I left college -- that I am beginning to embrace that side of me. I just wish I'd done it sooner.

Time and Tempo

Last night, I met up with some friends of mine at Tempo , a new Italian restaurant on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope (where Cucina used to be). My hair stylist, Mark, had recommended it (one of his other clients is involved in it--either a partner or manager, I can't remember). But he's certainly not the only one (check the link to the New Yorker "Tables for Two" review). And it lived up to its reviews. While the restaurant has retained the chef from Cucina, the new incarnation is the collaborative creation of three Park Slope residents and restaurant industry veterans Robert Amato (Ilo, Babbo), Michael Elliott (Restaurant Serenade, Babbo) and chef Michael Fiore (Park Avenue Café, Becco). And their past experience is evident in the menu (which borrows liberally from Babbo's--including one of my personal faves: a Babbo special, pumpkin ravioli), the service (starched shirts and a roaming sommelier, whose recommendation, a 2002 Altos de Luzon Bodegas Finca, was excellent and worth the $38 price), and the decor (think Bolo but with more muted colors and a mellower, cooler crowd).
Seven of us -- spanning a decade in age, from 29 to 39 -- were there to celebrate our friend Stacie's 38th birthday. Park Slope seemed the perfect meeting spot, since four of us (including the birthday girl), live in Brooklyn (although it was faster for me to actually go into Manhattan and then back out to Brooklyn via subway then chaging subway lines in my own borough).
Stacie is probably my closest friend in NYC. She was also my first new friend, when I moved here in 1999. I'd met her a couple years earlier through a friend and NYC-transplant in Phoeniz, where I lived then.
Stacie and I have been on the same track for awhile now. We were each dating, though not seriously, when we first met. We were both seriously involved with someone by 2003. And she got married last July--3 weeks after I did (we were in each other's weddings). Since then, she's been on afaster track to familyhood. She got pregnant in September and she and her husband should have a new home by the time she delivers. She didn't want to wait to get pregnant, since she's approaching 40. And she and her husband are anxious to buy a house before the baby arrives. So far, they've written 5-figure down payment checks, then voided them, on at least two places: a townhome in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and a 3-bedroom home in Melville, Long Island. Her other friends and I--all of whom live in or near Manhattan--have been trying to convince her to stay in Brooklyn. Long Island seems so far away --both geographically and pyschologically. And she grew up in Brooklyn, lived for years in Manhattan, and still heads into the city at least 2-3 times a week. She celebrated her actual birthday at Serendipity 3 on the Upper East Side, a Manhattan institution famous for its desserts.
I worry that if she moves to Long Island, she'll feel isolated--especially after she has the baby and isn't able to travel far. But there is only so much I can say. This isn't my decision. I was happy , though,when she said last night that she might look at some places in Brooklyn Heights this week.

A Musical Revolution

My husband and I shared a bottle of cabernet and 1/3 of a cheese pizza and watched "24 Hour Party People" last night (well, early this morning). It's a pseudo-documentary about the rise of the Manchester music scene in the late 1970s, as seen through the eyes of an ambitious TV reporter-turned-record label founder (Tony Wilson, as played by Steve Coogan) who helped launch the careers of bands like Joy Division, New Order, and the Happy Mondays. Not a bad movie. Though I wish it'd been a little less about Wilson and more about the bands (as even he must remind himself, "Oh, but wait, this movie is not about me--it's about the music"). Wilson is an interesting character. He fancies himself a creative genius and is constantly quoting philosophers and writers. He's charming, but he's also a cad. In an early scene, his first wife catches him getting a blow job from a hooker in a car outside a club. She goes back to the club and seduces Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division (who goes on to hang himself not long after). When Ian returns to find her mid-f*ck in a bathroom stall with Curtis, he pauses for a moment then calmly asks for the car keys, and as he walks away mumbles (in defense of his earlier actions) something like,"There was no penetration with the hooker."
Tony's not much of a husband (by the film's end, we learn he also had a second wife and is now married to a third) nor much of a father (we learn he has a son he rarely sees), nor much of a businessman either, as we learn at the end. When London Records offers to buy "the entire Factory Records label" for 5 million pounds--explaining that they want everything from the office space to the bands to the rights to past releases--Tony admits that he has no contract with the bands. In other words, his label has no rights to their music. His club (and one would assume) his record label shuts down soon after.
It's a shame to think of the additional musical contributions the JD, NO, and HM could have made had their members done a few less drugs and had Tony been a better business manager and a bit more vigilant in monitoring his bands' progress. (In one instance, he gave the Happy Mondays upwards of 200,000 pounds to produce a record in Barabados--almost all of which was spent, instead, on blow).
But the music on the soundtrack is great. And it's an interesting flick.
Kept us up till at least 1:30.
Slept in till 10:30, and it was SO nice to wake up naturally, not to an alarm. Though it was still dark when we woke up, which threw me off initially. It's pouring rain outside. Grey and dreary and 30-something degrees. But I'm wearing shorts (the heater's on high in the apartment). It's nice and cozy in here.

Labor Intensive

So, I've been working my a*s off all week on this big story (well, two, really). I finally filed them yesterday, and I was feeling pretty good about my labors. Then my sister called. She was about to go into labor herself (albeit a different sort). And - presto! - 12 hours later, I'm a first-time aunt! My sister has a brand new baby daughter.
And my accomplishments seem pretty puny compared to my sister's.
I do wonder sometimes--when I'm logging one of those 12-hour days of work, when I'm forced to cancel or postpone plans with friends to meet a story deadline (or cover some breaking news event), or I'm so exhausted when I get home that I barely get an hour with my husband before I'm passed out on the couch--is it worth it? I'm 32. I have friends in their 30s who've gone through thousands of dollars and painful hormone injections to get pregnant. I have friends who've miscarried their first babies--one who lost her baby 2 weeks before we'd scheduled her shower. She'd already painted the baby's room. (Fortunately, she was able to get pregnant again, and now has a beautiful--and healthy--baby girl).
But it's hard for me to imagine being a mother now. S. (my sis) plans to go back to work. She's a doctor in Chicago and only has about 2 and a half months maternity leave (she works at a hospital).
I'm not sure I could even get that much time off. I'm just hitting my stride career-wise, and getting pregnant is not considered a smart career move in my business. That doesn't mean I won't. My husband and I are already talking about it. But it makes me more impatient to establish myself in the position I want and soon--before I get pregnant. Because once your belly's bulging, the talk starts. Will she leave? Will she go part-time? I know colleagues who have done both. One went part-time and became so frustrated that she eventually quit. But I also know an editor who was back in the office a month after she gave birth, working 10+ hour days again.
It's so easy to say that I'll go right back to work, when I'm not even pregnant yet. But once that baby's born, it'll be hard to leave him/her every morning--and even harder to leave him/her with a stranger (nanny) during his/her most formative years! But my husband and I are not in a financial situation right now where one of us can afford to stay home full-time. Nor do I imagine we will be anytime soon (unless I win that $1 million sweepstakes I entered--or one of us wrangles a 5-figure book deal).
It's no wonder women are waiting longer to have kids!

Belated Blog

Belated Blog...
Apologies that I'm a day behind. Work has come between me and my leisurely pursuits again. I worked until 9:55 on Tuesday and was here until almost 11 p.m. last night (though I did take a 2 hour "dinner break" from 7-9 to meet up with some friends down the street... hey--I ate my lunch at my desk, so I feel no guilt). And I'm going for the trifecta tonight. It's 7:34 and I'm still here--and I have resigned myself to the fact that I'll be here at least another hour (so why not blog now?).
Im still new at this whole blogging endeavor (as you've probably guessed from the lack of links or visual aids). And I'm a bit paranoid about revealing too much about my private life--and, especially, my work life--in such a public sphere. (I read a few days ago that a St. Louis Dispatch reporter was suspended for having a blog--or, rather, for writing "unflattering remarks" about his employer on said blog).
Suffice it to say that I am feeling overwhelmed and underappreciated at the office. But that's probably true of 99 percent of the people who work for someone else. I have no plans on going out on my own, though, having tried freelancing for a year. The autonomy was great, but the unpredictable flow of funds was not. Also, as a freelance writer, you spend as much time pitching yourself and your story ideas as you do actually writing the stories. And I prefer to just focus on the reporting and writing and leave the marketing to our publicity dept.
Promise to write more tomorrow. But I really want to make it home before 10 tonight. So I must sign off, for now, and get back to work.

A Violin in the Void: A Violin in the Void

A Violin in the Void: Details

If you're in NYC and would like to taste for yourself, I've been told the cake we sampled is the "Autumn Flowers" cake (not a clue how it got that name, since there were neither flowers on the cake, nor is it autumn). But you can inquire about the name yourself when you order the cake at Edgar's Cafe on W. 84th between Broadway and West End.
(Promise, no payment recevied for the plug... it was just a genuinely darn good cake).

A Violin in the Void

A Violin in the Void

Cake Break:

I just had the most sinful slice of chocolate cake (block-o'-choc is more accurate). And while my sugar levels are spiking, I figured I'd write a quick entry. Normally, I can resist chocolate cake (though I am a sucker for key lime pie and the lesser-known-- especially in the Northeast--chess pie I remember fondly from my childhood in Texas). But this was hardly a cake--it was more an experiement in how many forms of chocolate could be combined in one dessert.
Think chocolate brownie-- or three of them, separated by chocolate mousse layers--generously sprinkled with dark chocolate slivers, with dozens of tiny chocolate chips embedded in the side. Just don't think about the calories (though I can attest that it was worth every one).
The cake was a belated delivery for a colleague who celebrated her birthday a week ago, smack dab between Christmas and New Year's -- a date she used to curse (as it usually meant one present for two holidays, and no school celebration since she and her classmates were off on vacation) but now cherishes as "an excuse to celebrate all week long." Cheers to that. Also, as I've discovered myself after turning 30, once you hit a certain age you'd rather forget about the birthday anyway--and that's easy to do if it's wedged between 2 of the biggest holidays of the year (and several glasses of egg nog and champagne).
All right.. break's over. Back to work before the sugar high wears off.
(Hmm. Maybe I should just keep a second slice nearby to prevent a sudden drop in sugar levels).
More TK.

My husband...

started a blog on New Year's Day. He's been encouraging me to do the same. At first, I demured. I write for a living (albeit, straight journalism, not commentary) and the thought of coming home and spending another hour or more in front of the computer screen... Well, actually, the more I thought it over, it didn't sound so bad--as long as I could write what I wanted.
So when blogspot required me to join in order to post a comment on my husband's blog (NewYork2005--check it out), I filled out the info and -- *poof* -- now I've got my own blog too.
Stay tuned for more.