Birthday (I would like you to dance)

Today is the 39th - good Lord - 39th birthday of my best friend, Ellen. Which is crap, when you come to think of it, because Ellen and I met when we were 8 years old, and when I hang out with her, sometimes it seems like we are still 8 years old, and her little sister Michelle is still little, and we have our whole lives in front
of us, and there is still a chance for the Beatles to get back together.

Last time I saw Ellen was this past summer, when, as usual, she was the cool, trippy, funky, awesome, scholarly, adorable, geeky, loving person she has always been, except now she is an amazing partner to her husband Jay (another of the coolest people I've met, ever) and mom to Cory and Samantha, born some years apart but each one a unique and thoughtful and beautiful soul in their own right. One of the things I love most about my friend is that she is the least intimidating person I've ever known. She knows how to guide, and love, and reach out to people in a way that doesn't piss them off, or drive them away, or make them feel stupid. She just is. And as always, I'm scrabbling to keep up with her evolved soul, always getting trapped in the algae and deadwood of my own limits.

When we were kids, we had the good fortune - but not so good for Ellen - of having a lot of freedom. Certainly more than I ever had at home, that is. Because we were always hanging around at her house, and because her mom was rarely around, we ended up teaching ourselves about a lot of things. Like grief, when her beloved Sinjin died, but happy things too, like not really knowing how much you could actually laugh until you tried it (e.g., the Band Room, the A-School, the Young Ones) or how music could literally change the nature of your being, and the more you engaged with it, the more transformative power it possessed.

Because of Ellen, I had a magical - in the true sense of the world - childhood and adolescence. Our friendship has survived all these years because it is built on a foundation of memory and understanding and laughter and connection. And I know, that like her, when I get married someday, I'll marry a person who reminds me of that connection.

Recently I was at a party with other friends from high school and a number of them talked about how much they envied us, how they wished they'd had a friend like that, a relationship that survived against all odds and someone whom they knew always had their back, no matter what. It made me remember a day in the A-school, right before Ellen moved to North Carolina, where we cut in half the cardboard artwork we called "Sleepover." As we cut it, people around us cried, but we didn't. I think we'd always realized that it was just a symbol of what we were carrying inside. No matter what was to come - and the list includes a lot of unbelieveable items - losing parents, breakdowns, running away from home, crises of the heart, fire, flood, and finally ending up across the country from one another - we'd always be carrying that other half with us.

In Jewish tradition, the number 40 is binah - the word for wisdom. And since we are almost there, with thanks for the wisdom you've shared with me, and in hopes of someday being as amazing and evolved and full of peace as you are, I can only say in the words of our favorite band: I'm glad it's your birthday; happy birthday to you!

Week in Review

It's Friday, and with half an hour to go (6:30) before I get out of here and head for services, all I can say is that Shabbat can't get here fast enough. Technically, I suppose, it's here, as the sun has been down for a couple of hours, but if any kind of sweet relief was supposed to arrive with nightfall, it's not here yet.

What a week. Aside from the rent check debacle, it seems that my AMEX payment was also lost in the mail (took care of that this morning). Additionally: this week I was accused, and thankfully cleared (yay for my good record keeping, for once), of wrongdoing in an article I wrote recently for a print publication; the amazing and miraculous events surrounding yesterday's emergency landing in the Hudson, while truly inspiring and wonderful have nonetheless triggered the 9/11 nightmare code in my brain; and my toilet, in spite of two repairs this week, is still not functioning.

So I don't really know how much Shabbat is going to be able to do for me. I have more faith in xanax, but I have to drive. And yet I am not sure I should be medicating these problems. Granted, there's not much I can do about lost checks, downed planes, or malfunctioning plumbing. But it does seem symptomatic of feeling like things are spinning - make that raging - out of control - and that the Universe has handed me a somewhat justified ass-kicking for not paying attention. Is xanax just a better way of hiding from the problems I'm already not coping with? And yet I am pretty wound up and I would love an escape, even for a couple of hours, from the fallout and the post-traumatic stress. I'm tired. I'm sorry things got so bad, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention to the lost checks and my bank balance and all that, but plenty of people are just as stupid as I am. Why is it that I feel like I'm really, really being punished?

But am I? Everything worked out, didn't it? I'm not homeless, or sued, or dead, or even cleaning the unspeakable off my bathroom floor. I'm just left with a pile of notes that I'm glad I kept, a pile of mail that I have to go through, and a pile of old traumas that are going to stick around whether I like it or not. And of course, having to lift the cover off the tank and do the manual lift-chain mambo isn't all that bad. It's just annoying.

Hopefully some good music, some good words from Shemot, this week's Torah portion, some good friends, and some good sleep will help me to put this into perspective. If anyone has any low-cost, effective ideas for how to unwind after a week of really bad stress, by all means please share: now's the time.

Rent

Today I found out what happens when your rent checks get lost in the mail. That's right. Checks, in the plural.

On Monday night I came home from a lovely happy dinner with my dear friend Hayley to find a big obnoxious notice masking-taped to my door. An eviction notice. Basically, it gave me 72 hours to prepare for a sheriff's arrival at my door (Do we have a sheriff in Larchmont? Insert your Blazing Saddles joke here) to lock me out, get rid of my stuff at auction, etc. Every bad thing you could possibly think of. Worst of all, I had no idea why this was happening to me.

You'd think that a broken toilet is bad enough. That's what I came home to on Friday night, after another lovely dinner with a dear friend. In both cases, on Friday and Monday, I'd had this wonderful time, gotten to catch up with two very dear people, and came home much lighter of heart. On Friday night, I arrived home to an inability to flush. By Monday night, it felt like my life was going down the toilet.

Two days of phone calls (unreturned) to the management office revealed nothing. No one called back, and so I assumed everything was OK, that it had been a mistake, that they had the wrong guy, whatever. This morning, however, my angel of a super called to let me know that something was indeed very wrong. He let me know whom I had to call at the central office (and gave me a direct line), but had no idea what was happening. And being the nice person he is, was quite upset at the notion of having to let someone lock up my place and take all my stuff.

So I called. And the woman was totally responsive once I had her direct line: but -- imagine finding out that not one, but TWO of your rent checks have gone missing. Suddenly, the notice from the sheriff seemed appropriate.

I know what you're saying. Believe me, I can hear you yelling from my office, which doesn't even have any windows. I'm an idiot. Don't I check my bank statements? Didn't I notice more funds in my checking account? The answer, dear friends, is no. Because I am not really good at keeping track of stuff like that. They say that creatives are hopelessly impractical, and yes, even THIS hopelessly impractical. I was at a funeral recently where during the eulogy someone said that the deceased - a highly successful, functional, creative individual - was unusually bad at things like opening mail, checking bank statements, and keeping files current. I know it might sound bizarre, but I felt entirely relieved that I wasn't alone in my organizational disability.

Unfortunately, I never thought it would come to this. I figured that my rent was paid because, well, I didn't have any reason to think it wasn't. I mean, no one called, no one emailed...but I'm assuming perhaps that they might have sent a notice in the mail, which is, in all likelihood, sitting in a pile with my unopened bank statements.

But I never for one minute imagined that the management office was missing, counting January, three months worth of payments. So the very nice person at the management office - and believe me, the niceness meant a LOT to me today - having realized that this was an honest mistake (or being struck by the panic in my voice) - said I could get a bank check for everything including January's rent (which they haven't gotten either - oy) and a crapload of late fees, costs, etc., and if I could pay it by 5:00, they'd call off the dogs, and the sheriff, and the auctioneer, and presumably the executioner, the jester, the clam goader and the angry crowd of taunting peasants hurling rotten vegetables imported from some medieval street market five hundred years ago.

My mother, the single, rational, calm voice of reason over the course of the past three days, could not have been more supportive or smart. When I told her what happened - that I needed an emergency bank check - she helped me pull it together, did a transfer, and made sure everything was covered.

So I got my coat on, hustled right the hell out of my office, got my bank check, boogied it over to the office, and at last, was able to breathe for the first time in days. I mean I was pretty much literally unable to breathe all afternoon, from the moment I found out that they meant it, for real, and that if I couldn't pull this huge amount of money together, I was going to be homeless in the morning. It's times like this I am so glad I don't have an addictive personality (well, except for Rice a Roni, sometimes) because this scariness would have driven me to a crack den at the very least, and quite possibly into some kind of permanent, panic-induced substance abuse. As it was, today I drank a Coke for the first time since last May. My first, and hopefully last, for 2009. Why? Because I don't have any controlled substances or alcohol in my office, and I really needed some kind of comfort, big time. And if sugar and caffeine could provide that, even for a moment, it was worth the elevated blood sugar.

So that is today's saga. While I'm still shaken, and upset, and I obviously need to go to the bank tomorrow to figure out what the hell happened to three month's worth of rent checks, oh and by the way figure out how to cope with the nearly $800 I had to pay in late fees and costs for calling off the medieval torture hour tomorrow, along with trying to devise some method for me to be less of an idiot and slightly more on top of my finances (Good lord, who did I get this freaking lack of organization gene from? Why do I suspect the Rosenthal side in this?) I am still utterly and completely relieved that I have a home to go home to, and a mom who could provide a bailout package - much of a sacrifice as it was to her - without even batting an eye. "We're family," she said earlier this week, as I sat in her living room, wondering why this was happening to me and scared that something was really wrong. "If something happens, we help each other. That's what we do."

So I'm a very lucky girl. Lucky to have family and friends that care. Lucky to have a roof over my head. And lucky not to have been separated from my stuff, and subjected to mockery and pelting with rotten vegetables.

I guess this means that I need - really need - to get organized. And start being a grownup. Even if that means being a creative grownup. I'm just hoping being one doesn't necessarily mean sacrificing the other. But hopefully it won't. I don't ever want to go through an experience like this again.

The lesson for today - live, learn...and be grateful. And check your bank statements.

Peace, y'all.

What I Learned On My Winter Vacation

I guess the most important conclusion I came to is that there is no way in hell I am making my self-imposed deadline of April 24th for this book to be done. In fact, for the second time in as many months, I had to take a deep breath, stop what I was writing, and start over again. I've got about 10 pages of stuff I can work with, but I had to go back to the basics and begin my outlines over again.

It's not so much that the story isn't going anywhere, it's just that I keep getting bogged down in the details. Something in me wants to report every footstep, every moment, every heartbeat, but for one thing, it would make the book a thousand pages long, and for another, it would be some mighty boring reading. So I've got a journal, and I've handwritten my notes so far, and my timelines, and hopefully this will help me to hit the actions / scenes / points on the trajectory that I need to make happen, along with weaving in the outside elements that will hopefully give the story a broader perspective.

Today is my first day back in the office and while I'm glad to be here, I'm having some trouble making the transition back. Mostly because I just want to write, but I don't want to write the projects that I have to work on. And I'm feeling, like everyone else who is back after ten days of vacation, more than a little swamped. And more than a little worried about all of the things I have to accomplish.

And then there's the other stuff. Like finding out how you react in your secret heart when you hear that your first serious boyfriend and his wife are expecting twins. It makes you wonder how the Universe really works. It makes you wonder exactly what is being handed out, fairly and unfairly. Some of us get scars on our knees, still visible, from the day we landed on that sidewalk at the bottom of a flight of concrete stairs in South Philly. Others get marriage and children. And it makes you wonder what you really want. It makes you wonder what you should be grateful for.