Because I am mildly evil, I have stationed myself in the corner booth of my coffee shop so I can watch all the couples straggle in today, stooping under the immense pressure V Day exerts on hipster Williamsburg relationships. “Do we act above this? Do we embrace the traditions but, like, in a meta way? Do I find out if s/he/they likes me as more than a hookup?” Then there are older, more-established couples (read: smugmarrieds) whose grimly set mouths and shoulders betray their trepidation around this Hallmark holiday–you know, “Is this year he is hopelessly disappointed by my lack of a gesture though we assured each other we didn’t care about hearts and candy? Is this the year she is hopelessly disappointed by me in general?” Sure, this should just be a day celebrating love of all kinds but everyone knows the kind of expectations that get attached to anything that marries capitalism and romance. The tension in the air is so deliciously high as people order their americanos that I scarcely need caffeine at all! But seriously folks: I send love on this WTF day because, well, why in tarnation not?
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Seeking love insight during these topsy-turvy times? Book a reading, dolls.
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Finish Lines: Double Toil, Trouble, Entendre
Cute Cat’s Curls
Where to start, where to start?
It hasn’t been that long since I blogged, but it’s been a while since I deposited the kind of long, rambling essay that I feel inclined to deposit right now. Consider yourself warned.
The universe is encouraging me to do so. For one thing, I hiked all the way into the West Village to write the thank-yous I so desperately need—and want!—to write, only to discover I’d remembered everything but the beautiful notecards I’d purchased for this purpose. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here at Oslo West, with my long-lost friend, barista Cat, who has new curls—or maybe curls she just let off the leash. Either way, they’re fetching.
So far it’s been that kind of year: everything off the leash. Exhibit A: our democracy. Correction: Our former democracy.
Anyway, all of the West Village is fetching, sometimes I forget. Once upon a time I lived here with the Architect, and as much as it’s changed it’s also the same: the oddest mix of brittle and cozy, bohemian and haughty. Continue Reading →
Through the Past But Never Over It
This is my mother in 1967. She was 24, which means she had just changed her name from Mary Susan to Sari Musan (true) and married my father the year before.
As a child I thought of my mother as a redwood oak. Six foot tall in stocking-feet, she loomed over everyone else, even my father, who ogled her like the cat who ate the canary even when she was covered in sweat from doing Jane Fonda. Especially, come to think of it, when she was serving him matzo brei. With her blue-gold eyes and curving mouth and cheekbones, I guess I knew she was beautiful. But mostly I read her frustration–stuck in the suburbs, stuck with two screaming brats, stuck in compromises that whisked her away from a city career as an art designer, barely making ends meet but having so much more fun.
My father would tell me, “You’ll never be as beautiful as your mother” while she’d look away demurely, and even when I was small I’d think, What a fucked-up thing to say. But today I was nosing around the recently refinished basement of my apartment building and stumbled upon a box containing old letters and photos from my teens. There gleamed my twentysomething mother in a repose I’d long forgotten–lowered lids, pursed lips, goddess dress and tresses flowing. Venus in your bloodline: That’s something all right.
I find it no coincidence I excavated this image right before revising my book.