What goes around comes around

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In the Before

Walking through the lobby I quickly glance at my smart phone: three minutes.  "Shit!" I throw open the door and run across the uneven brick sidewalk, the heels of my shoes making a quick click-clack sound. I spring up the cement steps two at a time and emerge from the alley onto Brattle Street. But my feet have responded before my brain, it will take more than three minutes to get through Harvard Square to the bus. As the resignation seeps into my bones, the scene around me solidifies.

The accordion player on the corner nods at me while he plays some unknown tune, infusing the square with a French laissez-faire atmosphere. Two women speaking to each other point to their destination, an Indian restaurant, while walking slowly past me. Tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures, oblivious to business people quickly re-adjusting their paths to avoid a collision. There is a remnant of daylight still left on this late February evening and in the air a promise of spring. Time pauses like a ball at the end of a string in the apex of it’s upward arc.

I Turn around and begin to walk down the stairs.

“You’re going the wrong way.” Two female co-workers cheerfully warn me as they walk into the square.

“No, no I’ve decided to take a different way home.” I respond smiling.

There is a sense of acceptance and relief as I begin my walk home. Passing by the restaurant next door, I notice a group of people on the other side of a window sitting at the bar. They are chatting animatedly while lifting bright colored drinks in martini glasses. I pause and stare for a moment too long. A couple inside the bar senses my gaze and glances at me. I look down at my feet and continue walking through the alley. I used to imagine being one of those people who stopped for a drink before heading home. When I move into the city I will do that, I thought. But even after moving into the city two years ago, I am still in a hurry to get home.

My path takes me across the JFK Bridge and the boat house. The sky over the Charles River is striped in bands of orange, gold and indigo as the light drains from the sky. Silently, a team of scullers in a racing shell slips through the dark water towards the horizon.

After I have left the buzz of Harvard Square I turn onto a residential street. Neat rows of houses with yards are illuminated by soft circles of light from the street lamps. As I pass, motion sensitive porch lights flicker on to greet me as if some electrical current is emanating from my body.

I used to live in a house with a yard and a driveway.

I used to own a car.

I used to be greeted by my daughters at the end of the day.

I follow the road and cross the pedestrian bridge over the Mass Pike and I am thrown into a cacophony of sound and smells and people that make up Harvard Avenue in the Allston neighborhood; life happening. Here a blend of Korean, Irish, Italian, Middle Eastern, soul food and Jewish cuisine exists in noisy harmony. The evening air is mixed with honking horns, Asian dialects and loud college students. Graffiti and murals dot the business fronts. This is urban life.

Six years ago, in the before, I would drive down this street. It was a necessary leg on the one hour journey from my home in the suburbs to a support group that met once a week in Coolidge Corner. When I would drive down this street, I marveled at the diversity of life. I marveled that there was some pivotal moment in my life that forced me to choose a different path.

I stop in front of a second hand store, filled with tables and lamps and odds and ends; pieces of another life. In the glass I catch a reflection of myself and in that same reflection a line of cars stopped at a traffic light. If time were to bend upon itself, the younger me would be in one of those cars nervously trying to figure out what he would be revealing at the support group tonight; worried about running late, worried about all of the changes. He would look through the car window and wonder if the older me was alone in this life.

I want to talk to the younger me and tell him not to worry; that the right thing to do in life is rarely the easiest. That even though the most trying times lay ahead of him he is travelling down the right road.

At the intersection of Harvard Ave and Comm Ave., I look down the road wondering if the T is near. But I can’t see beyond the bend so I continue to cross the intersection. Halfway across, the ding-ding of the bell rings in the distance and I hesitate. I turn around and run back in time to jump on the T, suddenly in a hurry, five stops and then home.

When I walk through the door, Paul hugs me and says “It took you a little longer to get home.”

Holding onto him, not wanting to let go I whisper.

“But I am home."

Finally.

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The Friendly Pencil - A Short Collaborative Story

This is a collaborative piece that was passed on to me from Jayne at Suburban Soliliquy.  She is a lovely writer, fellow New Englander and I look forward to her "Friday Night Frolics" weekly.  Here is how it works:

Let's watch creativity happen right in front of our eyes! The first and final sentence of a short story have been provided, and the rest will be created by people in the blogosphere.

Each person nominated will write one sentence, and then pass the baton on to a different blogger. The 9th person will finally link back to Kid in the Front Row which is where this started and then we will have a complete story. I have chosen Becca at I'm Pretty Sure That , to write part 4, then she will nominate someone to do part 5, and so on, till we return to The Kid again!

1. Angela was convinced that her pencil was the friendliest pencil in the whole entire world.

2. His hue, alone, revealed his sunny disposition, and with his pink chapeau perched high on his head, the pencil gladly accommodated or cleaned up any missteps regardless of their intentions.


3. But Pencil could not be sure of Angela's intentions as she nervously held him while scratching a check mark in the "Yes" box on the note that Becky passed to her in Geometry class.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10. "That's why I'm the friendliest pencil in the world," screamed Pencil, the pencil.

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Ten things I hate about you

Paul has left me. Yesterday morning before I was awake, he packed his bags and took off. In order to cope, I have decided to write a list of ten things that I hate about him. This way, I will not miss him. I will be happy that he is gone.

Here goes:

1. I hate the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
2. I hate the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
3. I hate that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
4. I hate the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
5. I hate that he is never jealous.
6. I hate the way he snores.
7. I hate that he makes me eat vegetables.
8. I hate that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
9. I hate the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
10. I hate that I miss him.

There, I feel much better. He can rot for all I care. Now, when I am feeling sad, I can just re-read this list and feel stronger, independent and so not in love.  You can help.  Read the list again with me.

1. I love the way he asks me questions non-stop in the morning before I am fully awake.
2. I love the way he talks so loud on the phone that whoever he is talking to does not actually need to use the phone to hear him.
3. I love that when he goes shopping, he buys enough inventory to survive a nuclear holocaust.
4. I love the way he shouts out all of the answers to Jeopardy before I have fully understood the question.
5. I love that he is never jealous.
6. I love the way he snores.
7. I love that he makes me eat vegetables.
8. I love that he calls our floor cleaner a Swifter, instead of a Swiffer.
9. I love the way he makes me call my pot belly a “sexy belly”.
10. I hate that I miss him.

Oh, I see what you just did there. But I will go on hating that I miss him, until he returns from school vacation with the kids next weekend. Until then, I so hate love him.

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Sleepless on Sutherland Road

Avoid caffeine.......

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Random Act equals a Major Award!

We are sitting street-side in a night club patio, tropical drinks in hand while the West Hollywood moon peeks through swaying palm trees. A Latin beat thumps in the background as I notice Paul’s gaze shift from me to somewhere in the middle distance. There is a look of wanton desire in his eyes as evidenced by his dark saucer-like pupils. It is reflexive, primal.

“See something you like?” I say bitterly.

“I’m sorry sweetie, I just couldn’t help myself.”

How could I blame him? We are surrounded by them as they parade down the street showing off their strong bodies, detailed impeccably. Here is a young sleek one. Here is a powerful muscular one that cruises like a predator decked out in leather. Every time they pass he checks out their rear end. It is a disgusting display of obsession.

“That one is a Rolls Royce Phantom, $400,000, forgive me I just can’t help myself.” He says.

“You might want to wipe up that drool.” I say while turning my head, marveling at the disparity between the haves and have-nots that exist within the space of one hundred feet here on Santa Monica Boulevard. While he salivates over Aston-Martins, and Bentley Continentals, I can’t take my eyes off of these poor boys that have spent all of their money on gym memberships and nutritional supplements, leaving scant resources for clothing. Indeed, some of them have only enough funds for one article of clothing, skimpy underwear. But they dance, God bless them, living in the now.

“He needs to eat, give him something.” Paul says knowing that it is not in my nature to ignore anyone in need.

“But he’ll only spend it on a nipple piercing, a strategically placed tattoo or steroids.” I offer up the oft-cited argument.

“Go ahead.”

I will do it dammit! I will ignore my doubts that he will spend the money foolishly and provide him with enough funds to buy a cheeseburger so that he may not be embarrassed by his six percent body fat that barely covers his rippling abdomen muscles. My heart is like the shining beacon of truth that is the Hollywood sign in the distance.

I pull out a few dollars, a pittance really, and walk up to one of the poor boys that dances on his sad little stage. As I get closer I realize that he has already spent money on nipple piercings and a tattoo that undulates down the side of his V shaped torso. I shake my head; at least this money will not be spent on those trivial things. But then I realize there is a flaw in my plan. He has no pockets! Where will he store the money? I experience an “A-ha moment” as I carefully tuck the bills inside the strap of his pitifully skimpy briefs. He is afraid that he will lose the money as he guides my hand deeper.

“There, there my good man, no one will take your money.” I say magnanimously.

He flashes a grateful smile, ridiculously perfect and white, hugs me and then sadly, flexes his biceps for me as if to say I will spend this money on more steroids. But I don’t care. I have selflessly practiced a random act of kindness. There was nothing in it for me. The universe will respond.

**************************************************************************

And the universe did respond! I have received a Major Award from Angie at Angie Uncovered. If you don’t read her blog, you should. It’s funny, heartfelt and thought provoking. I will practice another random act of kindness by passing this award on to three other great blogs I think you should read. But as a part of the award, I am required to tell you five random facts about me first. Consider it my awkward rambling award acceptance speech:

It's all about me

1. I was married to a woman for twenty two years and to a man, a wonderful, sexy, patient, car obsessed man for two years now. This makes me uniquely qualified to bestow my marital advice to anyone and everyone. And I'd like to start with Mr. Santorum.

2. The first time I gave a go-go boy some cheeseburger money, he fell off the bar and on top of me. I developed a rare but documented fear called Twink-a-fall-a-phobia. Paul's response? “Thank goodness it wasn’t a big ol’ bear bar.” I am happy to report that I am recovering through intense immersion therapy.

3. I have body issues. When you grow up hating what is on the inside, it’s only a matter of time before you project it to the outside. I am working through this and now I can say that I think my rack is pretty awesome. They’re real and they’re spectacular!

4. When I take a piece of clothing off of a hanger, I have to place the empty hanger in another spot with all of the other empty hangers. If they are mixed, Earth will explode.

5. Suck it Jesus! (That’s a Kathy Griffin reference, don’t get up in arms, all of my hoards of religious right readers)

When I was in California I had the pleasure to meet the following three blogger award winners. Come on down! Run down the aisle while the camera focuses on all of your jiggling awesomeness. The Price is right:

And the winner is award goes to

Becca at I’m Pretty Sure That: When Becca enters the room, she brings the sun with her. Her smile and laugh could warm Jack Frost’s heart. She is lovely. If I were single and straight, I would marry her. Her blog is snarky, tearful, personal and her recount of overheard conversations hilarious. .

Elizabeth at Flourish in Progress: When Elizabeth enters the room, she brings the moon; mysterious, beautiful beyond imagination she walks in beauty like the night. Her blog is wildly popular, hilarious and got it’s start from taking a year off from shopping. She was inspired by the Happiness Project and now she inspires countless minions weekly with her Monday Dares. Don’t drink anything when you read her blog, or it will come out of your nose when you guffaw.

Jim at A Southerner in San Francisco: Jim is a handsome star that seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. (Seriously Jim, give me your secret). Could it be his diet of southern fried delicacies like fried lasagna, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Cheerwine? Check out his blog to find out. His posts are near and dear to my heart because he hails from my hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina and lives in my adopted home town of San Francisco. He weaves the two together beautifully.

And so I have practiced yet another random act of kindness by giving you, my readers, the sun, the moon and the stars, with a generous side of go-go boys.

I bet the universe responds big time!

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Clueless

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